


Reap The Whirlwind

by Morgan Briarwood (morgan32)



Series: Dreamwalker [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Future Fic, bigbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-08
Updated: 2009-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan%20Briarwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4083">Dreamwalker</a>. Doctor Sam Grey (once Sam Winchester) is a dreamwalker, and the most powerful psychic in the country. Called back to the Psi Project to investigate a mysterious epidemic of night terrors among the students, Sam discovers not a malicious psychic but a malevolent spirit. Sam calls on the one person he knows is an expert in such things: his brother Dean. But Sam has seriously underestimated the danger and when Dean is badly injured it looks like the solution is up to him after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_j2_bigbang 2009
> 
>   
> _“For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk; the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up.”_
> 
> Hosea 8.7

### Stanford University, 2004

Sam looked down at Jessica and thought that in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Jess lay on her back on the bed, her blonde curls spread out across the pillow. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, her lovely lips swollen from the kisses they’d shared. Sam ran his fingertips down her cheek, drawing a smile from her. He stroked her slender neck and traced the edge of her collarbone until he reached the strap of her bra. He drew the strap down slowly, then bent to lay a soft kiss on the skin where there remained a slight indentation from the strap. He began to slide his hand downward.

“Tease,” Jess sighed. Her eyes opened, blue and sparkling.

Sam, not certain of her meaning, started to withdraw his hand.

Jess stopped him, trapping his hand beneath hers. She giggled. “Oh, Sam. Don’t be silly!”

Sam was pleased that she wanted him to keep touching her, but the moment of hesitation had broken the mood for him. If he continued kissing her and touching her, he would end up staying the night. Sam knew he couldn’t do that.

“I should be going,” he said awkwardly.

Jessica moved his hand to her breast. “You can stay,” she suggested.

“I wish I could…”

“Sam, please.”

Sam took his hand from beneath hers and moved back a little so he was no longer touching her. “Jess, I would love to stay, believe me, but I can’t spend the night with you.”

“Why not?” A note of irritation crept into her voice. “You’re nineteen, you can’t be a virgin, so – ”

“It’s not about sex,” Sam interrupted, embarrassed because she was wrong about that. “It’s because I’m a psychic.” There. It was said. Sam couldn’t meet her eyes for a moment.

Jess sat up, curling around his back and hugging him from behind. He felt her warm breasts pressing into his back. “I was in class when you told everyone,” she reminded him.

Psychology was Sam’s major, so the _Psychics and the Psi Project Solution_ course was a compulsory for him. Jessica had taken it as an elective. Sam had been raised by the Psi Project. He knew everything he thought he needed to know about the Project, and though he’d suspected that the course content would be biased, he’d figured that at least it would be an easy pass for him. Then he’d read the set book, and it had sent his blood boiling. It was such nonsense: Psi Project propaganda.

All men are created equal…but the appearance of measurable, easily identifiable psychics in the human gene pool had turned that once universal truth into a lie. The Psi Project was the result of that inequality. Some psychics had abilities that people found familiar, if frightening: precognition, telekinesis, mind-reading. Increasingly, though, there were others: children who could kill with a touch, children who could put thoughts into another person’s head, children with powers so strange there were no names for them. People were frightened. Others saw instant potential in people who could literally kill with a thought.

The Psi Project officially opened in 1968. It was hailed as the solution to the problem of the children born with psychic abilities. The Psi Project, established by rushed legislation and later strengthened by a Supreme Court as susceptible to fear as everyone else, was supposed to be the solution. All children were tested for psychic ability at the ages of eight, twelve and sixteen. A child identified as a psychic had no rights as a citizen, nor even as a human being. They were taken into the Project when they tested positive for psychic ability. Often, it was against the wishes of the child’s parents, but it wasn’t unusual for families of younger psychic children to enrol their children in the Psi Project voluntarily. The Psi Project was supposed to take care of the children, to nurture their abilities in an understanding setting, teach them control. That was the public face of the Psi Project.

However, Sam had lived the reality. He was taken from his family at twelve years old and it had not been a willing parting. It was true that the Project had helped him to develop and control his strange abilities. They had also tried to kill him. That was the dark side of the Psi Project, the part no one ever talked about: what happened to the children whose abilities were deemed too strong or too strange for safety. There were no human rights within the Project: those children were killed, put down the way you put down a dog that turns vicious. There was a process, a system of checks and balances that was supposed to ensure no child was killed unjustly, but the reality inside the Project was very different.

Sam had been in the Psi Project for three years when a girl he’d met just once killed herself. Her mentor reported she’d been suffering from nightmares and someone, for some reason, decided Sam could be to blame, because he was a dreamwalker. It had been the beginning of an eight-month long ordeal for him, a trial by fire that should have ended with his death. But Sam had been raised by John Winchester until he was twelve. His father had taught him never to give up, and that when your life is threatened, you do whatever you have to. He had taught Sam to live by the rules, but to break them when he had no other choice.

Sam broke every rule of the Psi Project when he found his way past the suppressors. He had literally gambled his own life when he broke into the Psi Project Director’s dreams to plead his case. It had taken a long time and many tests and punishments, but eventually Sam won the right to be judged on his character instead of his power. It meant that he spent every day until his eighteenth birthday on guard, forced to prove himself over and over. It meant he survived.

That was only part of Sam’s story. There was more: other children who had died, friends he had lost. Sam understood that his only escape from the Psi Project was to live through it. Many psychics returned to the Project after they graduated, to work there as teachers and mentors. Sam would not. He was happy to take their money for his education, even though it had meant taking a place at Stanford instead of following Tasha to Chicago, but he was not going back. No matter what.

So when his professor started singing the praises of the Psi Project, Sam could not sit still and listen to it. He did sit there for two weeks, dutifully taking notes in lectures, never asking questions. Meanwhile, he used the library computers to do some research of his own. He knew what the Project really was; he just wanted to marshal some facts that could not be disputed.

The following week he stood up in the middle of a lecture and asked the professor to comment on the mortality rate of children within the Psi Project. The professor’s answer was straight from the textbook: that as difficult as it was, some of the abilities uncovered by the Project were simply too dangerous, not just to “society” but to the other children. It was the cue Sam needed. He’d announced to the whole room that he’d been raised by the Project, that he _knew_ what it was like and the professor was full of so much bullshit.

He’d expected to be kicked out of the class, but the professor surprised him. He asked Sam to see him privately after the lecture. So Sam waited after the class was dismissed, and instead of tearing him a new one the professor offered to let Sam give the next lecture: to stand up in front of everyone and share his experience. Perhaps the professor expected Sam to back down – most psychics were wary of revealing themselves – but Sam leapt at the opportunity. He’d told them all what life was really like inside the Psi Project. He’d even taken questions.

So much for staying in the closet.

So, yes, Sam was well aware that Jessica knew much of his past already. He nodded. “Everyone in class knows I’m a registered psychic, but I didn’t tell everything. I need to explain to you _before_ we spend a night together.”

“In class,” Jess said, “you told us you’re registered as a psychic, so anyone who really wanted to know what you could do should look you up at city hall. Some of the class did. I know you’re a dreamwalker.”

Sam turned to look at her then. “What do you think a dreamwalker is?” he asked her. “Did you look that up, too?” He tried to make the question sound casual, as if it didn’t really matter. He didn’t blame her for being curious, but she could have asked _him_ her questions. She wasn’t just another classmate.

Jess looked embarrassed, as if she’d just realised the same thing. “I…uh…yeah, I did. Sorry.”

“What did you find out?”

“Um…not much. I know it’s a very rare ability. It’s sort of like telepathy, but only in dreams. Right?”

Sam shook his head: no. “It’s not like telepathy. Telepaths can turn it on and off. For me it’s like breathing. I sleep, I dream, I dreamwalk.” He drew back so he could look into her face. “Jess, I need you to understand this. No one can sleep and not dream; at least not for long. If I sleep alone, I can control it better. I can skip from mind to mind, just on the surface. But if I share a room or a bed with someone, I have less control.”

Her expression became very serious as Sam spoke. “You mean if we sleep together…” her voice trailed off.

“I’ll be in your dreams,” Sam concluded for her. He tried to explain. “Sharing a dream can be wonderful, Jess, for both of us, but if you don’t want me there it’s…kinda like psychic rape. I’ll see things you can’t control. Things you’d never tell anyone, ever.” He took her face between his big hands, looking into her eyes. “Jess, I _want_ to stay here tonight. I want to make love to you. But you have to want me, all of me. I’m not a normal man and I can’t do this halfway.”

Jessica hesitated and Sam was sure she would tell him to leave. He hoped this wouldn’t end their relationship, but she was the first normal he had ever dated. It was different with Tasha: she was psychic, too, and understood.

But Jessica surprised him. She smiled and said simply, “Stay.”

***

### Fifteen Years Later

Sam hated flying out of state.

All of the red tape seemed designed to remind him he was a second-class citizen. As a registered psychic he needed a visa to enter any state where he was not resident, and he had to register his journey with the authorities in his home state of Washington. The whole thing was a nightmare and he couldn’t believe he was going through it for the sake of the Psi Project. He’d sworn he would never go back there, especially since he learned the truth about his family, the truth the Project kept from him. All those years, he’d thought John Winchester abandoned him. His father never abandoned him: he’d believed that Sam was dead. The Project lied to all of them. The Psi Project was the reason he’d hidden as Sam Grey, instead of using his real name. His birth name.

So why was he helping them now?

Sam’s childhood in the Project wasn’t all unhappy, but the dark spots were very dark. Nedah’s face rose unbidden into his mind. He remembered falling asleep with the scent of her hair surrounding him. He remembered her dark eyes and shy smile. He remembered hearing of her death and found tears in his eyes, even after so many years. It was yet another reason to loathe the Project: Sam could have saved Nedah, if only they’d let him.

He walked off the plane and headed for the immigration desk to check in. He let the officer at the desk scan his ident. chip – a sub-dermal implant in his right wrist – and handed over his travel papers and visa. Sam knew his papers were all in order but they still made him wait while they confirmed his position with the Psi Project. He took the opportunity to call Jessica and let her know he’d landed safely. When the officer returned she wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes as she returned his papers all neatly stamped for entry. Sam knew the look. She had read his visa and was afraid of him now. Dreamwalker.

Wesley Bishop had graduated from the Psi Project a few years ahead of Sam. Now he worked there as a mentor and he was waiting for Sam as he walked into baggage claim. Wesley had changed since the last time Sam saw him. He had aged, naturally, but he was only a few years older than Sam himself. To Sam’s eyes he looked much older: haggard and perhaps sick. Sam collected his bag and nodded to Wesley as he approached. He knew Wesley was a psychic, but couldn’t recall what his talent was. They hadn’t known each other well.

Wesley smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Sam. Welcome back.”

Had he not added the welcome, Sam might have returned his warm greeting. But Wesley’s words put Sam immediately on the defensive. He was _not_ “back”. He had returned for a short visit, no more. He answered stiffly, “Just tell me why I’m here.” He was tempted to insist Wesley address him as _Doctor Grey_; they had never been friends, but that would have been a shade too hostile.

Wesley’s smile faded, but he recovered quickly. “While we drive, Sam. Let’s get out of the airport first.” He gestured. “This way.”

In the car, Wesley told Sam that the situation was worse than he’d previously said.

Sam made an impatient gesture, irritated by the vagueness. “You told me some of the children were losing control of their abilities because of nightmares,” he prompted.

Wesley nodded, keeping his gaze on the road ahead. “It’s worse since the Director called you, Sam. We thought we had an undetected dreamwalker but now…I’m not so sure.”

“So talk to me, Wesley. What _exactly_ is happening?”

“It began as night terrors among the youngest children. Nightmares, night after night, so no one could sleep. Now it’s spread to older children, too. Empaths spread fear to the other children, telepaths are broadcasting pain. Telekinetics are doing serious damage in their sleep. The pryros – ”

Sam cut him off. “I get the picture. Are your suppressors asleep on the job?”

“No, but there are too many children for each of them to get personal attention. Suppression is a rare gift, Sam. We’ve never had many.” Wesley glanced at Sam. “You know what happens when a child with an active power loses control. One boy has already died because of this. If no one can find the cause of – ”

Sam interrupted harshly, “I told Director Gilbert, I’m not going to help you murder children.”

“It’s not murder, Sam!” Wesley protested. “You of all people – ”

“I of all people know what a low standard of proof you need to condemn a child to death.” Sam said nothing more. Wesley knew Sam’s story as well as anyone. Sam had been innocent when he was deathlisted at fifteen, but he wasn’t now. Technically, if anyone knew that Sam had used his power to kill a man, any child in the Psi Project with a similar ability could be condemned. They cared more about what _might_ happen than they cared about the lives of the psychic children in their care. Sam had to be careful.

He let the silence drag on for a while before he spoke again. “What do you think _I_ can do?”

“Honestly, Sam, I don’t know. I hoped the work you’ve been doing would give you some insight. Andy – Director Gilbert – says your dream therapy program is very impressive.”

Sam snorted. “Oh, spare me the compliments. You’re pissing into the wind and hoping I can save you from getting wet.”

Wesley smirked at Sam’s turn of phrase. “Can you?” he asked.

“I was promised full access,” Sam reminded him.

Wesley nodded. “Yes. You’ll have it.”

Sam nodded. “Then I’ll do the best I can.”

***

The Psi Project compound was better protected than Area 51. The high fence didn’t give Sam a chill: living inside the compound he had rarely seen it. But when Wesley drove through the third gate and Sam saw the tall fir hedges beyond, he felt queasy for the first time. That hedge was the border of Sam’s world for seven years. From the day he first arrived at the Psi Project, scared and alone, begging every person he saw to let him call Dean, just once, until the day he finally left for Stanford, as free as any psychic was permitted to be.

A monorail carried them from the parking garage to the main Psi Project building. As it soared above the thick hedge Sam looked down and saw the centre again. He felt the walls of the carriage closing around him and laid his palm on the cool glass window, taking deep breaths. The calming exercise was familiar and automatic. It helped.

“Are you okay, Sam?” There was genuine concern in Wesley’s voice.

“I fucking hate this place,” Sam answered honestly. They were passing over the cemetery. Nedah was buried down there. So many children were buried there: victims of their own powers. Victims of the Psi Project. Sam straightened up, pulling himself together. He was not twelve any more. Sammy Winchester was a scared kid crying for his family. He was Doctor Samuel Grey. He was a successful therapist. He was married to Jessica, head of psychiatry at the Woodward Institute, which he, Sam, had helped to make world-famous. He had the life he had always wanted. He was in control of himself, and his powers. He did not need this place. They needed _him_.

The monorail slowed as it entered the covered station on top of the building. Sam took one more deep breath and stepped off the train.

***

The director of the Psi Project was Dr Andreas Gilbert. He had been director when Sam was at the Project, too. Sam had been in his office twice before. The first time was when he’d broken into Gilbert’s dreams from his room in the isolation wing – the Psi Project’s version of death row. Gilbert had been furious with Sam but – give the man his due – he _had_ listened. And he’d given Sam a chance, spared his life.

The second time Sam stood in this office was on his eighteenth birthday. The Psi Project only had authority over children. Once you turned eighteen, you could leave, but the Project didn’t tell you that until the day you came of age. Most of the children knew before then, of course: it’s hard to keep a secret among psychics. Gilbert had explained the rules to Sam and made him an offer: if he would remain with the Project until he was ready for college, and if he would enrol at a college approved by the Project, the Psi Project would fund his college education. Sam, who had resigned himself to a lifetime of debt to pay for college, could not refuse the offer, even with the strings attached. Gilbert insisted he choose a school on the West Coast and Sam knew without asking that it was because Tasha went to Chicago. He’d been willing to do that because, a teenage boy in love, he’d believed nothing could keep them apart forever. After all, they would still have their dreams. As it turned out, Tasha confessed she’d met someone else at about the same time that Sam first met Jessica. They were still friends.

The other string attached was trickier: Sam had to agree to consider working for the Psi Project when he was done with college. Sam was determined that once he left the Project, he would never, ever return. But the contract only required that he _consider_ it. So he signed, knowing he was lying. It meant he could afford not just a Stanford education, but his doctorate, too. When the day came, Sam turned down the Project’s offer of a job. By then he and Jessica were married and he’d been working on his theory of dream therapy. The Psi Project wasn’t part of the future he planned for them.

Gilbert’s office hadn’t changed much. Half of it was taken up with computer hardware, surveillance screens and more. The other side was arranged as a comfortable meeting area, six chairs surrounding a coffee table. Gilbert himself had changed a lot: his salt-and-pepper hair was now completely white, he was thinner, his glasses thicker. He smiled a greeting.

“Sam. Welcome, and thank you for coming. Coffee?”

Sam shoved his memories aside and answered as pleasantly as he could. “Coffee would be good. Thank you.”

Gilbert summoned his assistant and requested coffee for two, then gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Sam. How was your journey?”

“The flight was fine. Immigration was a pain in the ass. As always.” Sam sat down.

“Indeed,” Gilbert answered. He knew what immigration was like for Sam’s kind. “I’ve followed your career over the years. You found a very creative way to make use of your gifts. You’re a real inspiration to the Project.”

Sam winced. “I’m real sorry to hear that.” Unconsciously, he was imitating Dean.

Gilbert’s professional smile faltered. “You still resent us, even now?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be where you are now without the Psi Project, Sam.”

Sam nodded. He could have pointed out that, if the Psi Project hadn’t interfered in his life, his father would still be alive. It was true enough, but he didn’t think it wise to reveal he was in contact with his family again. Besides, by the same logic he would never have met Jessica or had his daughter. In spite of the horrible way Rachel died, Sam wouldn’t give up a single moment of the time they had together.

He decided to stick to the subject. “Wes Bishop filled me in on what’s been happening here. I see why you think it’s a dreamwalker.”

“Do you think you can identify the culprit?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s too early to say. I need to talk to the mentors of the children affected. After that I’ll talk with some of the children. Tonight, I’ll investigate their dreams. In the morning, I’ll be able to give you a proper assessment.”

“So soon?”

“I said an assessment, not a solution. I’ll tell you whether I can help and, if I can, what I need from you.”

Gilbert’s assistant returned then, with their coffee. Sam was grateful for the interruption; it gave him time to think over what he could say. Gilbert relayed Sam’s request to talk to the children’s mentors, giving a list of names.

When they were alone again, Gilbert met Sam’s eyes over his cup of coffee. “I’d forgotten how stubborn you can be,” he commented.

Sam met his look steadily. “Professional, not stubborn,” he said. Sam sipped his coffee. It was excellent.

“Tell me about your dream therapy program,” Gilbert suggested. “What’s your success rate?”

It was a reasonable question and Sam relaxed somewhat. This was familiar territory. “I suppose it depends on how you measure success. I’ve only had one case I’d consider a true failure. There are some who’ve elected not to complete treatment; my method scares some people off. But most of the patients I treat come to me after more conventional therapies have failed them. I can help most of them to some degree.”

The conversation was easier after that. Sam enjoyed discussing his work and Gilbert asked intelligent questions. He had clearly read at least some of Sam’s published papers.

“Do you think,” Gilbert asked eventually, “that any dreamwalker could learn your techniques?”

Sam hesitated before answering, not certain where this was going. “Could? Of course. _Should?_ Probably not. What I do is not much different from hypnotherapy. I don’t think it requires a dreamwalker: a telepath could do it, even a powerful empath. But I wouldn’t trust it to someone not also a trained therapist.”

Gilbert nodded, considering. “Sam, what would it take to convince you to come back to us? To take a job here, I mean. The Psi Project needs men like you.”

“The Project may need me,” Sam answered bluntly, “_I_ don’t need the Project.” Sam wouldn’t take a job that went against his ethics and killing children definitely did that. “Don’t even ask me.”

***

Sam met with the mentors all together. Each mentor was responsible for between six and eight children: that hadn’t changed in the years since Sam left. In theory the mentor filled the role of foster parent; in reality the kind of love and care that implied was rarely encouraged. What the mentors told him confirmed Gilbert’s story and filled in some of the details. After that discussion, Sam decided which of the children he wanted to interview. He would meet them all at once, just to meet them. It didn’t really matter what they might tell him in the interview; he would meet them each individually in their dreams for the real discovery. That was Sam’s specialty.

He met the children in the rec room. Sam remembered the room so well. Some of the games were different, but the general look of the room had not changed. The big one-way mirror was hauntingly familiar, though no one would be watching now. Sam looked up at the camera with its fish-eye view of the room: it was off. The children filed in one by one, They looked scared, and Sam remembered that, too. Any new adult meant something bad. This was going to be tough.

Four children, to begin. The oldest of them was seventeen year-old Colin. He was a telepath. He had not reported having nightmares himself but had been the first to report the night terrors in the other children in his mentor group. He’d said he couldn’t block them out, he couldn’t control his telepathy. On one night he’d somehow created a kind of feedback loop, tapping into the fear of the others and sending it back to them.

Second was Tamara. She was fourteen and, according to her file she was a clairvoyant medium: someone who could see and communicate with spirits. There were plenty of people who claimed to have that gift, but most were charlatans: a combination of guesswork, psychology and outright fraud. The genuine gift was rare. She met Sam’s eyes as she walked into the room and a fleeting frown crossed her face, as if she saw something in him. Sam wondered, but he wouldn’t ask.

The third child, Alex, wore a bandage on her head and had her arm in a sling. Of all the children Sam had discussed with the mentors, so far Alex had the worst physical injuries. She was telekinetic and had brought a wall down on her bed when she woke screaming from a nightmare. She’d claimed something was inside the wall.

Jason was a dreamwalker, like Sam, but he was only seven years old. Though his mentor hadn’t been able to get much from him about the night terrors, Sam thought Jason might know more than he was saying. Perhaps his mentor simply hadn’t asked the right questions. Sam knew what it was like to be in someone else’s dream. But the boy looked afraid of Sam, and he crowded close to Alex as they walked in, as if he was trying to hide. Sam would need to gain the boy’s confidence before he tried to question him.

Sam turned to the one who seemed the most relaxed: Colin.

“I’m Sam Grey,” Sam began. “What’s your name?”

Colin met his eyes. “You already know all of our names,” he answered.

“You’re a telepath,” Sam said, as if it were a guess.

«_And you’re the dreamwalker,_» the boy sent.

«**_The_** _dreamwalker?_» Sam sent back, startled.

«_Everyone knows,_» Colin declared silently.

Sam was the first, and to his knowledge the only psychic ever allowed to graduate from the Psi Project after having been deathlisted. Naturally, the story had spread. It gave the children that followed him hope. Sam prayed it wasn’t false hope. God, if anyone knew what he had become… Sam wasn’t guilty at fifteen, but at thirty he’d used his power to kill the man who murdered his daughter. Sam stifled that memory quickly, reminding himself he was in a room with four psychics.

Sam leaned forward, meeting Colin’s young eyes. “Can you tell me about the dreams?” he asked.

“It’s not the dreams you should care about,” Colin announced, and Sam saw the other children nodding in silent consensus.

“I’ve been told the students here have been having some terrible nightmares,” Sam told them. “Is that true?”

“Sure, it’s true,” Colin shrugged. «_But there are worse things here than the dreams._»

Colin thought they were being monitored, Sam realised. He thought his reply back. «_Okay. What do you think I should be investigating?_»

Colin looked at each of the other children. Sam heard nothing, not aloud and not in his mind, but he was certain Colin was having a conversation with them. He was skilled enough to use his telepathy selectively. Sam was impressed. Finally, Colin met Sam’s eyes again. «_Wesley Bishop,_» he sent. «_You’ll have to take it from his dreams. He’ll never admit it if you talk to him. Don’t even let him guess you suspect him._»

Wesley? Was Colin suggesting Wesley was responsible for all this? It didn’t seem possible: Wesley was a psychic (many of the mentors were former Psi Project graduates) but he wasn’t very powerful. Even if his talent (Sam still couldn’t remember what he could do) was one which might provoke such nightmares, he couldn’t be powerful enough to affect so many.

«_I’ll do what I can,_» Sam hedged, then said aloud, “Now, please, tell me about the dreams.”

***

Sam opened the padlock and pulled the chain loose. He pushed open the tall, wrought-iron gate and walked into the cemetery alone. This place was kept hidden from the children by the tall hedges surrounding it, but they all knew it was here. Rows and rows of graves, each marked with a plain headstone bearing only the child’s name. Sam walked between the rows, searching for Nedah’s marker. After a long time, he found it and knelt in the damp grass beside her grave. He wished he’d thought to buy flowers at the airport.

Nedah was raised by the Psi Project since she was nine years old. That was when her power first manifested and she was abandoned by her family. It happened. Parents got scared of the stuff their kids could do. Nedah was a pyrokinetic, which was pretty scary to her nice, normal family.

When Sam was first brought into the Project, he’d been assigned to the same mentor as Nedah. It meant they lived together in the same apartment, a faux-family. Nedah had bad dreams at night and Sam was a dreamwalker. He’d found herself in her dream on his first night and helped her fight off the monsters. The next day she sought him out. That was the beginning of their friendship. Nedah helped him through the first few days, and managed to make him laugh by snapping her fingers to make fire, like a human zippo lighter. That was the biggest flame she could manage most of the time, which was why she was still alive.

But Nedah’s bad dreams were not childish nightmares. Sam learned her secret by touching her dreams: she had been sexually abused, and sent to the Project because she tried to burn the man who raped her. Before long, Sam was creeping into her bedroom every night. He was twelve, she only ten, and there was nothing sexual in it. They would sleep together – only sleep – and when Nedah’s nightmares came, Sam would take control and give her pleasant dreams.

Then Sam was accused of killing that girl. When any child in the Psi Project was “under review” – a euphemistic term for being on the deathlist – that child was moved into isolation. Specially trained psychics – suppressors – worked to ensure the isolated child did not use his or her psychic ability. It meant Sam was no longer able to help Nedah at night. When he was finally released from isolation, he learned that she was dead. She’d had a nightmare one night and set fire to her entire room. No one but Nedah herself was hurt in the blaze, but she never left the hospital. Whether she’d died of her injuries or the Project had decided she should not recover, Sam never knew. He did not care. He knew only that she was gone, and he could have saved her.

Sam laid his right hand on the grass above Nedah’s grave. The cool grass tickled his palm. Her face was so clear in his mind: the flash of white teeth against her coffee-caramel skin when she smiled, her dark eyes and the long, straight hair that framed her oval face.

“I’m sorry, Nedah,” he said aloud. “I should have been there.”

He felt a spark of intense heat against his palm and snatched his hand back. He stared at the grass springing back from where he’d touched it. He saw nothing that could have caused that brief burn. He looked at his palm. Did he imagine that the skin was slightly reddened?

“Nedah?” he said, feeling a little foolish.

There was no response, neither from the grass nor the grave.

***

“I know it’s early, but do you have any – ” Gilbert began as he unlocked his office. He stopped when he saw Sam’s face.

“No,” Sam said firmly. He had expected the question, but it was no less irritating. Even if he _did_ have a suspect, he wouldn’t have told Gilbert. Not without being absolutely certain. “If I have to say it again, I will. I am not here to help you kill a child. I’m on _their_ side. Not yours.” Sam walked past Gilbert into the office.

“It’s the children who are being hurt,” Gilbert protested.

Sam could not respond to that. He thought it unlikely that the leaders of the Psi Project cared anything for the children in their care. They had the power of life and death over the children and how could anyone condemn a child they cared about? Sam’s daughter, Rachel, died before anyone but he knew she was psychic. He could not have given her up to the Psi Project. Sam shook his head, forcing himself to think of something else. No one could know about Rachel.

“Tonight,” Sam said, “I’ll need a place to work. Somewhere quiet, away from others.”

Gilbert looked surprised. “You always needed proximity,” he remarked, taking a seat behind the desk.

“No,” Sam corrected, “I didn’t. For control I need isolation, or as much as is possible.”

“I assumed you’d want to sleep – to work – near the children, but I can have one of the isolation rooms prepared…”

Sam choked. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t intended to be. Sam, I know you had a difficult time here, but – ”

“Eight months on death row is not ‘a difficult time’!” Sam interrupted harshly. “My best friend dying because your suppressors stopped me from helping her isn’t ‘a difficult time’. It’s fucking torture.”

Sam walked over to the window. The office overlooked the kitchen gardens: rows and rows of squash and sweet potatoes, pumpkins and beans grown on long poles. Sam remembered a lot of his friends here had enjoyed working in the garden. It was a pretty façade; a way to forget or relax away from the constant examination.

“If I’m going to do my job here, I need a workroom where I can relax. Perhaps you could clear out an office for me. Or a broom cupboard.” Sam didn’t try to keep the anger out of his voice. He thought about how much he would enjoy showing Gilbert how “difficult” his adolescence had been. If it wasn’t for the children, Sam would have headed straight back to the airport. But those children were scared, and there was something else. _Them_. Tamara had told him the dreams were about _them._What did that mean?

Sam might almost suspect conspiracy. It was possible that whatever was happening was being done by the kids themselves. That was the trouble with having so many psychics in one place: some things were hard to trace. The night terrors that apparently began this whole thing suggested a dreamwalker was responsible but a powerful telepath could do the same thing. Someone like Colin, he realised, but reminded himself not to start thinking like the Psi Project: just because Colin could have done it didn’t make him guilty. An empath could draw out fear in a person until he or she created their own nightmares. Hell, even ghost stories told in the dark might explain some of it.

That last thought stayed with him. Ghost stories. It made him think of Dean. Where was his brother now?


	2. Chapter 2

Dean laid the cleaned gun down on the canvas-draped table and reached for the next one. He stripped the gun quickly, laying each part neatly in front of him on the canvas. Beside him, Jo Harvelle picked up the gun he’d just cleaned and loaded it. There was a neat line of loaded guns at her end of the table: four shotguns, five handguns of various calibres and a rifle.

“I can do this alone,” Jo said, breaking a long silence.

“What? Clean guns?” Dean quipped without smiling. He didn’t smile much any more.

“Hunt the skinwalker,” Jo corrected.

Dean nodded. “I know you can, sweetheart, but I’ve got nothin’ better to do. Might as well go with you.” Dean wiped oil off his fingers and started to re-assemble the gun. Jo was a competent hunter, but skinwalkers could be hard to hunt, and she’d admitted this would be her first. A skinwalker was a human who had gained the power to shape-shift through human sacrifice. Over time they became less human and more animal but they retained the intelligence and cunning of a person. They were easy to kill – a silver bullet to the heart – but the cursed thing would take the hunter with it if it could.

Jo seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m not going to help you get yourself killed, Dean.”

He glared at her, saying nothing.

A year before, Dean had killed his father. He was still wanted for the murder, which was the reason he’d been living at Harvelle’s Roadhouse. But it hadn’t been murder.

From one perspective, it was self-defence. John had been about to kill Dean. If Dean hadn’t struck first, he would be dead now. From a different perspective, it was entirely involuntary. Dean had been possessed by a spirit, used by it as a weapon. But the real kicker, the part that had Dean reaching for the whiskey and wishing it could give him true oblivion, was that the whole thing was really Sam’s doing. The brother Dean believed had died at fifteen had in fact survived. He’d committed murder, and thereby created a vengeful spirit that had killed five people Dean knew about, before their father.

Dean couldn’t even hate him for it. Sam had his reasons for killing that man, reasons Dean even agreed with, but that couldn’t change the consequences.

So here he was, still hunting because that’s what he figured John would have wanted, but his heart wasn’t in it any longer. Jo thought he was trying to get himself killed, but that wasn’t it. He just didn’t care.

Dean set down the last of the cleaned guns. “There. That’s it.” He reached for his whiskey glass but found it empty. He stood and headed for the bar. He could feel Jo’s eyes on him the whole way.

Ellen refilled his glass and added the shot to his tab. He’d work the tab off doing odd-jobs around the place; Ellen was pretty cool about that.

“You going with her?” Ellen asked bluntly.

Dean nodded. “If she’ll let me.”

“Good.” Ellen’s eyes said it all. Though Jo had more than proved herself, she always worried when Jo went hunting.

Dean knocked back his whiskey and went to help Jo put the guns away.

***

Sam’s usual workroom was a simple bedroom in the Woodward Institute, the asylum where he and Jessica both worked. The office Andy Gilbert gave him was plain, the walls painted a pale blue, the carpet a shade or two darker. Sam, with help from some of the children, moved all of the furniture out of the office and installed a bed. Sam didn’t much care if the room was comfortable. He just needed a place where he could remember he was an adult and a doctor. Being in the Psi Project compound made him feel like a helpless kid again.

Sam locked the door from the inside, lifted his bag onto the bed and changed his clothing quickly. He wouldn’t sleep in pyjamas; if anything happened tonight he might need to leave the room. But he needed loose clothing to sleep in, so he changed into soft jogging pants and a t-shirt. He laid his shoes beside the door where he could find them quickly, then sat down on the carpet to prepare himself to dreamwalk.

Sam took several deep breaths to relax his body. He drew air in through his nose until his lungs could hold no more, then held his breath for a few seconds before breathing out through his mouth, as slowly as he could, feeling his muscles relax more and more with each out-breath. Physical relaxation was the easy part.

His mind was racing. Sam hated being back here. He’d known it would be difficult. His years at the Psi Project had not been all bad; truthfully, he had some very happy memories. But the bad outweighed the good. His real life, as he thought of it, only began when he escaped the Project.

Was he doing the right thing, helping with this? Wouldn’t it be better for the Project to be exposed for what it was? How could he, of all people, help to cover it up?

The questions were pointless. Tonight, he had to dream with the children and find out what was going on.

Sam lay down on the bed and, eventually, found himself in Dream.

***

He reached for Jessica first, because he knew she would be waiting for him. Joining his mind to hers was so simple and familiar, he felt his tensions drain away at her loving touch. The physical distance between them was no barrier; Sam could have found her from the moon. In their shared dream they walked along the river near their home, hand in hand.

“Is it bad?” Jess asked him seriously.

Sam took her into his arms. “It’s…harder than I thought…coming back. I hadn’t thought about being around the children.”

Jess hooked her arms around his neck, looking up at him. “Oh, Sam.” She didn’t need to say more than that.

When they first married, they’d talked about having a big family, three or four children at least. But difficulties getting pregnant were followed by two late-term miscarriages, and by the time Rachel was born they had known she would be their only child. She had been enough: a bright and vibrant girl who brought endless joy into their lives…then Rachel died, too.

Jess may have suspected Rachel inherited her father’s psychic ability; Sam had known it for certain. Now, being around so many psychic children, he kept thinking of what Rachel would have been like at different ages. Of course, he would never have known; the Psi Project would have taken her, if death had not.

He swallowed, and tried to force his mind off the subject. “It’s not just the children. This place has so many bad memories. I shouldn’t have come back.”

“I told you it wouldn’t be easy, Sam, but that doesn’t mean you were wrong to go.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “My wife, the super-shrink.”

 “You were so angry with them, Sam. I know your history and I understand your anger, but you were using it to avoid facing what the Project really is to you.” She reached up to touch his face. “You need to face it, honey.”

“What do you think it is to me?” Sam asked her, but he knew she wouldn’t answer.

Jess shook her head. “Uh-uh. You need to answer that for yourself.” She smiled, patting his cheek as if he were a small boy. “Now kiss me and go to work, Superman.”

“I love you,” Sam whispered against her ear. He kissed the delicate shell of her ear, then her cheek, then finally kissed her on her mouth. He wished there was time for more. The touch of her skin was as real to him in dream as it was in reality. But tonight, he had work to do.

Reluctantly, Sam let his connection with Jessica’s mind fade and went in search of the children.

***

Sam could no more refrain from dreamwalking than he could stop himself from breathing. As a boy, Sam had shared dreams with his father and brother every night. He hadn’t understood that he was invading their minds. Dreamwalking came so naturally to him that he was freaked out when he finally realised not everyone could do it. He’d thought everybody dreamed like that.

The Psi Project taught Sam control, but control didn’t mean he could stop doing it. There were, he learned, different levels of dreamwalking. He learned to touch other sleeping minds only lightly, skipping from dream to dream all night. It was the psychic equivalent of the way an insect walks across the water of a pool, never seeing what lies beneath the surface. Often, Sam didn’t even know whose mind he was touching and that was how it should be.

But he could go deeper. He could enter a person’s dream against their will. He could control what they dreamed and, inside a dream, could read every thought and feeling. He could even trap a person inside a dream, keep them asleep indefinitely, though he never _would_. As a therapist, he found those techniques useful, but since he learned how to control his gift he never entered any mind so deeply without their consent. Well…except once, but that was a special case.

Sam had not asked the children for their consent, but they were all psychics. Each of them would know what he was doing when he touched their minds and if any of them wanted him to stop, Sam would respect that.

Sam reached out to Colin, the telepath, first because he had seemed to know most about these strange events, but he found the boy awake. Colin was lying in bed, tired but unable to sleep. He felt Sam’s touch against his mind and shielded automatically. Sam had guessed before that Colin was powerful; now he knew it for certain. Sam couldn’t penetrate his psychic shield, at least not while the boy was awake. He moved on.

Sam touched Tamara’s dream and found a nightmare. Tamara’s dream-self was in a crumbling building, trapped beneath a fallen beam with water rising around her. She cried out for help, but in a voice that told Sam she expected none. Sam could simply have changed the scenario, taken her out of the dream and into a safe place, but he instinctively chose a more subtle approach. He made himself a part of her dream and leapt into the water. It was shockingly cold, needles of ice stabbing him, but it wasn’t deep, reaching only to Sam’s knees. Tamara saw him and screamed for help. The water, disturbed by Sam’s entry, was sloshing over her mouth. Sam extended his awareness to monitor her physical body. The Psi Project hadn’t taught him that; he’d figured out how to do it when he began treating psychiatric patients. Sam felt Tamara’s breathing stutter in her sleep, her heart beating too fast as if she lacked oxygen and he knew that if she drowned in this dream, she would stop breathing in reality, too. Perhaps not long enough to be fatal – the unconscious body tended to compensate – but long enough to cause harm.

Sam waded toward her and grabbed the beam pinning her down with both of his hands. The wood was rough with splinters and Sam winced with the pain. He sacrificed a few precious seconds, concentrating to smooth out the wood, but the splinters still cut into his skin. That wasn’t right. In a dreamworld, Sam should be able to do _anything_. He released the beam and tried to lift it without touching it, which he should have been able to do in a dream, but it didn’t move. It was as if someone else were controlling this dream. Sam concentrated, thrusting his power deep into the dream – into Tamara’s sleeping mind – to wrest control to himself. He reached for the heavy beam, prepared for pain this time, and heaved it upward. It took effort, but he raised the beam off the crying girl and shoved it aside. It landed in the water with a huge splash, but by then Tamara was beginning to get up.

Sam offered her his hand.

Tamara took it, her cold fingers curling around his. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Let me take you somewhere safe,” Sam suggested.

“Can you?”

“If you let me.”

She nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Sam looked into her mind for a place she would feel safe, somewhere she associated with happy memories. He found a children’s play-yard with red-painted swings, a tall jungle-jim with swinging ropes and a little merry-go-round, all surrounded by waist-high green hedges. He built up the image around them and Tamara seemed to relax at once. She sat down on the merry-go-round, one hand curled around the metal bar and both of her feet resting on the long grass, so she could control its movement. Sam noticed her feet were bare and she was shivering.

“Think about the clothes you’d like to be wearing,” Sam suggested.

Tamara gave him a quizzical look, but she did as he asked. Because it was a dream, Sam could read her thoughts easily, and he dressed her in the clothing she imagined: blue jeans, boots and a green cashmere sweater. She smiled up at him. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam answered automatically. He created a bench to sit on, close enough to the merry-go-round for them to talk, but not so close as to intimidate her. “Who is doing this to you, Tamara?” he asked.

She hunched forward, hugging her knees. “_They_ are.” She looked up, but seemed unable to meet his eyes.

“Alright. Who or what are ‘they’?” Sam tried to probe her mind gently, hoping to find the answer she so clearly didn’t want to tell him. All he saw was a ghostly figure forcing her into the water. But that was her dream; it didn’t tell him anything about the mind behind that ghostly shape.

She shook her head, tight-lipped. Water still dripped from her hair and Sam could feel her fear.

“You’re safe here,” Sam started to say, but as he spoke the hedge behind the merry-go-round was growing, the leaves twisting into vines and reaching upward. “Tamara…” Sam held his hand out to her.

Instead of taking his hand, Tamara turned to look. The vines thickened and reached, rustling, toward the merry-go-round.

Sam grabbed for her. “Tamara, come to me. Now!” He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet.

The vines transformed, becoming snakes, forming hissing mouths. Sam shoved Tamara behind him, shielding her with his body. He stretched out a hand toward the mass of snakes, creating a barrier with his mind. One of the snake-mouths struck at Sam’s hand. His invisible shield protected him from its fangs, but try as he might Sam could not drive them back.

Sam gathered Tamara into his arms and shattered the dreamscape around them.

He cast around for an image to build a new dreamscape. The danger had come from living, growing things so Sam built this new setting from marble, glass and metal: the atrium of a modern building with sunlight streaming down on them through a wall of glass. It wasn’t a real place, but a mental patchwork of different buildings Sam had visited. They were safe here.

Sam turned to Tamara, his hands on her upper arms, holding her gently but firmly. “Tell me who _they_ are. Please!”

She opened her mouth to say something and the glass above them exploded, shattering into a thousand glittering shards, raining down upon them. Tamara screamed. Sam pulled her close, shielding her again with his body. He felt daggers of glass slice through his clothing and into his flesh as he destroyed the dreamscape.

He had barely begun to form a new setting when he felt the heat of flames.

Sam couldn’t control this. He could not control Tamara’s dream. He wrapped a psychic cloak around them both and did a thing he had never done before. He pulled Tamara out of her dream…and into his own.

He slammed a shield into place. This was _his_ dream now and Sam was a powerful, experienced psychic. No outside force could penetrate his shield now he was within his own mind.

Tamara was shaking in his arms. “Please, they’ll kill me. Please.”

Sam wanted to say _It’s only a dream,_ but he more than anyone knew that dreams could kill. Instead he asked gently, “Where are you sleeping? Show me now.”

“I…”

“Just picture it. Your bedroom, or wherever you are right now.”

Tamara didn’t question. She simply showed him.

“Good. I’m going to wake us both, and then I’ll come to you in the flesh.”

“No!”

“We don’t really have a choice.” Sam could feel whatever it was testing his shield. The shield would hold, but he couldn’t keep Tamara inside it indefinitely. “I can’t keep us in a dream forever. You have to trust me, Tamara. Are you ready?”

She nodded, but Sam knew she was terrified. He gathered his power, taking a moment to calm and concentrate his mind. He had to shock her awake and release her mind in the same instant. If he didn’t get it exactly right she might simply dream she was waking…and that would be horribly dangerous. Publicly, Sam always maintained it was impossible to kill a person with a dream, but he knew it could be done. Tamara seemed unusually susceptible.

Sam gave her a mental shove and felt the backwash of her terror before it cut off, abruptly, leaving him alone in his dream. He prayed it had worked and she was awake. If not, he had just killed the poor girl.

***

While the women closed up the Roadhouse, Dean packed the gun-cleaning materials away. He retrieved his Colt, which Jo had put away with the rest of the guns. She should have known better. He shoved the Colt through his belt at the small of his back and made his way to the bathroom.

Dean stripped off his shirt and t-shirt and dropped them onto the linoleum, then turned on the hot tap and reached for the soap and his razor. Jo came in while he was shaving and hopped into the shower. Dean made no comment: he’d seen her naked before. They fucked occasionally. He didn’t love her and she knew it, but it didn’t matter. Jo understood him, and he her.

The shower steamed up the mirror so Dean had to wipe it off several times before he was done shaving. He studied his face in the steamed-up glass. The scars on his face were barely visible now, just slight ridges in the skin that resembled acne scars. A pity the scars inside didn’t heal so  easily.

Jo pulled back the shower curtain. “Pass me a towel, baby.”

Dean threw her a hand-towel. “Don’t call me ‘baby’.”

She caught the towel and tried to wrap it around her long hair as she stepped out of the shower, dripping wet. Dean watched her walk toward him, enjoying the way her tits bounced as she walked. Jo had some scars of her own. The most prominent was a long, twisted line down her left arm from the shoulder to just below her elbow. He reached out to touch her arm, tracing the length of that scar, gathering water onto his fingers.

“You’re in a weird mood tonight,” Jo commented.

As soon as she said it, Dean realised that she was right. That old saying _someone just walked over my grave_ was a good description of how he was feeling. But why?

Dean pulled her in close, crushing her body against his. Jo reached up to him at once, raising her face for a kiss. He kissed her hard, grabbing a fistful of her hair and turning them both so he could lift her onto the sink. She gripped his shoulders as he lifted her, deliberately digging her nails into his skin. Dean dropped the gun he still had in his belt into the sink, unzipped his pants with one hand and bent his head to her breast. He sucked her nipple into his mouth, sucked _hard_ and then bit down, just enough to hurt. Jo liked a little pain.

She cried out when he bit her, wrapping her legs around him and working her hand between their bodies. She grabbed his cock – none too gently – and guided him into her. It was too quick and she was tight, not quite ready, but Dean shoved himself into her hard and fast. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, biting her again.

“Dean! Oh, god…” her voice was sweet in his ear.

For a few moments, buried in Jo’s willing body, Dean could forget the thought that had been weighing on him. He could forget what a mess his life had become. In the rush of heat and sex, the sheer physical pleasure of it, Dean could forget. He thrust inside her, feeling his orgasm build. Jo’s wet hair caressed his skin and she moved to meet his thrusts, writhing in his arms. Her breath came in rapid little pants but Dean heard frustration in her voice, as if she wasn’t quite getting there. He slid a hand down; his finger found her clit and he rubbed; Jo cried out. Her nails raked down his back and she came apart in his arms. Jo was fucking amazing when she came, her face flushed, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted. Her breasts danced as her body spasmed in orgasm. Dean had to touch them, but his hands were occupied. He kissed her neck, tasting sweat and worked his way down to her breasts. She grasped the back of his neck, holding him to her and he bit down again, held her nipple between his teeth and worked it with his tongue. He had to pull away, then, afraid he’d bite too hard when he climaxed. He held her close, thrusting into her as he came, finally, spilling into her with long, hot strokes.

Jo clung to him for a few moments as they both savoured the afterglow. Finally Dean moved back, pulling his softening dick out of her and lifting her down from the sink.

“Thanks, Jo.” He kissed her gently. “I needed that.” But even as he spoke he felt his strange mood close around him again. Sex usually helped; tonight, apparently, nothing was going to get rid of it.

Jo wrapped a towel around herself and bent to pick up her clothing. “Who’s Sam?” she asked. She narrowed her eyes at him, mock-angry. “Are you screwing some other girl?”

The question puzzled Dean. It might not have been entirely a joke, but Dean didn’t think Jo was really bothered by the thought of him with someone else. They were fuck-buddies, not lovers. “Not right now, I’m not,” he answered honestly.

“Then who’s Sam?”

Dean frowned. “The only Sam I know is my brother.”

Jo straightened up, giving him a weird look. “Ew! Do I want to know why you’re screaming his name when you come?”

Dean stared. “I did not! And I don’t scream.”

“Dude.” She simply looked at him, holding the towel closed over her breasts. Her look said it all.

But he certainly hadn’t been thinking of Sam during… Dean opened his mouth to say it, then abruptly everything made sense: his crappy mood and the way he’d been dwelling on his father’s death.

“Sam,” he said aloud.

Jo made for the door.

“Jo, wait. You don’t understand.” Dean went after her, realised his pants were still unzipped and yanked on the zipper clumsily. He put his free hand on the door to stop her from leaving.

She turned around to face him. “I’m not sure I _want_ to understand,” she said icily.

She _really_ thought he was… Fuck! “Sam’s a psychic,” Dean explained. “I think he’s trying to reach me.”

“Is he allergic to the phone?” she asked acidly.

Dean found himself smiling, in spite of everything. “Yeah. Sometimes I think he is.” He opened the bathroom door for her. “I need to sleep.”

She gave him a cheeky grin. “Dude, I know I wore you out, but don’t you want to call your brother first?”

On any other night, Dean would have dragged her into his room to prove she hadn’t worn him out at all. This time he simply shook his head. “That’s how Sam’s psychic thing works. He’s a dreamwalker.”

Jo pulled a face. “Freaky.” She shrugged. “Sweet dreams, then.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Dean went back for his shirt and his gun. He found the shirt soaking wet on the linoleum; he balled it up in his hands, retrieved the gun from the sink and headed for his bedroom to sleep and, hopefully, to find out what the hell was so important that Sam was willing to ruin Dean’s sex life just to get his attention.

***

Sam burst through the door, grateful the Project still left the residential areas unlocked. His heart was beating in his throat, his breath almost painful from the long run. As he neared the apartment Tamara had shown him in their dream, he heard a child’s voice screaming. He followed the sound to this room.

“No, Tammi!” It was a young boy’s voice, filled with panic.

Sam had only a moment to take in the scene. Tamara was on the floor with her back against the wall, holding a large kitchen knife to the throat of an older man. He was sprawled awkwardly in front of her, his legs splayed at an odd angle that made Sam think one of them could be broken. The child Sam had heard was no more than seven years old. The boy turned to the door as Sam burst in, his eyes wild and terrified.

“Tamara!” Sam froze in the doorway. “It’s me, Sam. Remember? Look at me, Tamara.”

“Take her out!” the man shouted, then cringed as she pressed the knife into his skin.

Sam snapped, “Shut up!” at the man. He moved further into the room, slowly, keeping his hands visible to demonstrate he was unarmed. He spoke softly to Tamara. “It’s okay, Tamara. Just look at me. That’s all.” He would say her name as often as possible; it should help to bring her back to herself.

She looked up and he saw the blind panic in her eyes. She didn’t seem to recognise him at first.

“Good, Tamara,” Sam went on encouragingly. “That’s good. Are you okay?”

She drew in a deep breath. “No.”

Sam moved a little closer. “I’m here to help. Will you let him go?”

Tamara looked down as if she hadn’t known she was partway through cutting a man’s throat. “Oh. Oh, god. Sorry.” She let the knife fall from her hand.

Immediately the man rolled over and grabbed for her. “You little bitch!”

Sam was on him in two strides. He dragged the struggling man back, away from Tamara. “Don’t touch her!”

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

“Sam Winchester,” he answered, still with one arm hooked around the man’s neck. It wasn’t until much later Sam realised he had given his boyhood name instead of Sam Grey.

Tamara started to get up. Halfway to standing she froze, staring at something, then screamed. The knife she had been holding rose into the air and flew toward Sam.

It was one of those moments when Sam’s power reacted before his mind caught up. It sent a blinding spear of pain through his head, but the knife stopped in mid-air. Through the pain, Sam had a fleeting impression of a figure holding a knife, the shadow of a young face. He realised abruptly that the knife wasn’t meant for him, but for the man he still held. Then the momentary vision was over and Sam dragged the man from the path of the descending knife.

“Run!” he snapped, releasing the man. He didn’t wait, but helped Tamara up and offered his other hand to the boy. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Tamara asked.

It was a good question. Sam hesitated. Where would be safe. What did he need?

Salt. He needed salt. That meant food. “Kitchen,” Sam said aloud.

“Why?”

“There isn’t time to explain. Where’s the nearest kitchen?”

Tamara, still holding Sam’s hand, started to run, dragging him behind her. Sam followed.

***

Sam opened cupboards and pulled out drawers. He didn’t know how much time they had. He knew salt would work, but did he need to surround the whole room or just the door and window? He couldn’t remember.

“What are you looking for?” Tamara asked him. She had picked up the boy and was holding him in her arms. She must be stronger than she looked.

“Salt. We need salt.” Sam opened the next cupboard and there it was: a large tub of cooking salt. He grabbed it and tore off the lid. It was about half full.

“What’s salt gonna do?” Tamara demanded.

She was a medium; she really ought to know about spirits. “Trust me,” Sam said. He carried the salt to the doorway and began to pour it across the threshold. He was almost hoping it wouldn’t work. If the salt kept them safe it would confirm that what attacked Tamara was a spirit. Sam knew, in theory, how to deal with a ghost, but he had no idea how to go about it. Not here.

He salted both the door and window and that used up all of the salt. It didn’t make logical sense that this would work; couldn’t spirits just go through the walls? “That should do it,” he announced. The children didn’t need to know of his doubts. He set the empty tub down and crossed to Tamara and the boy she still held. “Tamara, are you okay?”

She nodded. “I think so. For now.”

“What’s your name?” Sam asked the boy gently.

Tamara set the boy on the ground so he could answer. He was a red-head with a face full of freckles and hazel eyes. He wore pyjamas with clown faces on them. Sam knelt down so he would be closer to the boy’s height.

“I’m Kevin. I’m ak…” he stumbled over the word, “acquee…”

“Acquakinetic,” Tamara supplied for him. “Kevin’s acquakinetic.”

“That’s good,” Sam smiled. “You’re safe here, Kevin, at least for tonight. We just have to stay in this room.” Sam looked at Tamara. “You’re a clairvoyant. Didn’t you know it was a spirit?”

Her cheeks flushed with guilt. “I knew,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper.

“Did you summon it?” Sam asked. He had to ask, but Tamara’s reaction left him in no doubt.

Her eyes went wide and she shook  her head vigorously. “No! I would never!”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“When it got bad, I tried. Ralph wouldn’t listen.”

“When it got bad,” Sam repeated. “So, you knew sooner.” He waited for her confirmation. “And the other kids? They knew, too?”

“Some of us,” Tamara admitted. She looked down at her bare feet.

Outside of dream, Sam could not read Tamara’s thoughts, but he could tell his questions were getting close to something she didn’t want to say. He couldn’t afford to let her keep her secrets. If she hadn’t summoned the spirit, she wasn’t to blame, even if she had stayed quiet. What did she know? Sam could make a good, informed guess as to what this spirit wanted. He remembered Dean telling him, _Murder, that’s how vengeful spirits are made_.

Then Sam remembered something else. “If Colin knew about this spirit, why did he tell me I should investigate Wesley?”

Tamara hesitated.

_That’s it! That’s the key to all this!_ “Please. I need to know.”

Tamara met his eyes, then. “Don’t be angry with him,” she pleaded.

Sam considered that, because he didn’t want to lie to her. “I can’t promise I won’t be angry until I know what you’re going to say. But I will promise that, no matter what, I’ll keep it between us. I won’t tell the Project. Okay?”

She nodded. “It’s because of Jenn. Jennifer.”

It was interesting that Tamara didn’t mention Jennifer’s psychic ability. Within the Psi Project, children tended to define themselves by their powers, introducing themselves that way almost as if it were a last name – and last names were rarely used in the Project. For Tamara to refer to this girl only by name was unusual enough to stand out.

“Who is Jennifer?” Sam asked.

“Colin’s best friend. She’s in the pit.”

_The pit_ was what they’d called the isolation wing in Sam’s day, too. So, Jennifer _was_ a psychic, then. Isolation didn’t mean solitary confinement, it meant psychically isolated. It was ostensibly done to prevent the deathlisted children from doing further harm while their cases were thoroughly investigated, but Sam knew the investigations were far from objective and the verdict was always the same.

“You mean she’s in isolation?” Sam prompted.

“Yes. And it’s not right! It’s because of Wesley. Colin thought if you got into his head, if you saw… You could help her.”

Sam remembered Colin calling him _the_ dreamwalker. It was more than simple admiration, he realised. It was hope. Sam’s escape from isolation was used by the Project as “evidence” that their process was fair, but the children all knew better. Colin thought Sam could help his friend. Sam prayed it wasn’t false hope. What could Sam do? He had no influence here, no real authority. He _had_ been promised access…

“Okay. I will look into Jennifer’s case, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do more than look. Right now, we need to deal with this spirit. I want you and Kevin to keep watch for me.”

“Keep watch?” she repeated uncertainly.

“I need to go back into the dream, Tamara. It’s the quickest way to find the help I need. I want you and Kevin to stay close and wake me if there’s any sign of danger. And make sure no one else wakes me up. What do you say?”

“Danger?”

“A spirit can’t cross a salt line, honey. As long as we stay here inside the circle, we should be safe. Can you do this for me?”

Tamara swallowed. “I’ll try.”

“Kevin?”

The boy simply nodded. “Yes.”

Sam smiled, trying to make it reassuring. “Well done.” He looked around, but there was really nowhere comfortable to sleep. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have taken the salt he’d found into a bedroom and sealed that. But it was too late now. He lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

He needed help, and there was only one person he could trust to give it to him: his brother, Dean.

***

Dean’s bedroom was small: there was  barely enough room for the bed and the nightstand. He had never intended to move into the Roadhouse permanently. Ellen offered him a place to stay after John’s death. It allowed him a breathing space after everything that happened and she hadn’t asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer. He started hunting again when Jo asked for his help; before long he found he was training her, the way his Dad trained him. Jo had been hunting on her own for years: she didn’t need training in the basics. But there were skills Dean learned from his dad that Jo had never come across and he was glad to teach her. Ellen never asked him to stay forever, but this had somehow stopped being _the spare room_ and become _Dean’s room_.

Dean hung the wet shirt on the back of the door and quickly shed the rest of his clothing. He was sure, now, that his brother was trying to reach out to him. He hadn’t known Sam could do that. He crawled into his bed and closed his eyes.

***

_Dean walked down a narrow, dirty street. Tall buildings stretched high on either side of him, rickety fire-escapes zig-zagging up their sides. The sidewalk beneath his feet was shiny with rain. The dark street seemed vaguely familiar, but not quite real. It was more like something out of a movie. The moment Dean thought of movies, he knew where this was. Gotham City. Which meant he was dreaming._

_He looked down at his clothing. He was dressed all in black: black sneakers on his feet, black jeans, a nearly full-length black leather coat. He was a little disappointed that he wasn’t Batman._

_No way was this _his _dream._

_“Sam!” he called. His voice echoed back to him from the narrow alleys. Sam! Samsamsam!_

_Why was he alone? And why_ here_? Gotham City was cool in comics and movies, but it wasn’t very safe. Dean looked up and couldn’t see the tops of the buildings._

_“Sam!” he shouted again._

_A door opened ahead of him, casting a beam of light into the street. A shadow appeared on that sparkling beam. “Here!” Sam hissed from the open doorway._

_Dean walked toward him. “Geez, Sammy, couldn’t you come up with a better dream than this?”_

_“Hurry!” Sam urged. He gestured, beckoning rapidly._

_Dean reached the doorway and Sam dragged him inside. He slammed the door, bolted it and moved a heavy chair in front of it. Considering that Dean hadn’t seen another soul on the street, it seemed like overkill._

_They were in a small, square room with bare brick walls, lit by a single, naked bulb. The room contained a large threadbare couch and a rug on the floor. That, plus the chair blocking the only door, was all. Sam’s dreamscapes were usually a lot more fun._

“_Sam. What’s going on?” Dean studied his brother, noting the tense set of his shoulders and the pallor of his skin. “You look like Hell,” he observed._

_Sam leaned back against the wall beside the door. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk creating a new dream so I pulled you into mine.”_

_This was _Sam’s _dream? “Huh. You need to get out more, dude.”_

_Sam made an impatient gesture. “It’s…symbolic. There isn’t time to explain. Dean, I’m at the Psi Project and I need help.”_

_The words sent a chill of fear through Dean. The Psi Project had almost killed Sam before. “What the Hell are you doing back at the Project?” he demanded._

_“They asked me to help with…something weird that’s been happening here. They thought they had an undetected dreamwalker, but they’re wrong. Dean, something is attacking these kids.”_

_“A rogue psychic,” Dean assumed. The Psi Project must have a few._

_“No,” Sam disagreed. “I stopped it with salt, Dean.”_

_“Then it’s a spirit.”_

_“I’m afraid it could be more than one. I can’t deal with this on my own. I need a hunter and you’re the only one I can trust.”_

_Dean’s first, unspoken thought was _Maybe you shouldn’t. _He wouldn’t take revenge against Sam for what he’d done but it hadn’t made him feel any friendlier toward psychics in general. If anything, Sam had demonstrated how dangerous a psychic could be, even one who was trying to do good. Maybe the Psi Project had the right of it: take them down before they could do serious harm. Dean killed vampires, werewolves and skinwalkers for similar reasons. He found no moral conflict in his work. _If it’s supernatural, we kill it, _as his father always said._

_Sam crossed to the old couch and sat down, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “Dean, these are _children_. The spirit, or whatever it is, has already caused one death.” He looked at Dean, his expression pleading. “I need help, man. I remember some of what Dad taught me, but it’s not enough. This is your specialty, not mine.”_

_It wasn’t easy to refuse Sam’s plea, but Dean tried. “Are you forgetting I’m wanted for murder?” he stalled._

_Sam nodded. “That’s back home. The Project Centre is in Colorado. Can’t you use a fake ID or something?”_

_Of course he could. But Dean wasn’t ready to agree to this. He sat down beside Sam. “You look awful, Sammy. I thought you could…you know, clean things up in a dream.”_

_Sam managed a quick smile. “Usually I can. It’s taking all my concentration to make sure nothing can listen in on us here.”_

That _got Dean’s attention. He didn’t understand how this psychic thing worked but he knew that Sam was supposed to be one of the most powerful psychics in the country. “Sam,” he asked cautiously, “what is out there that you have to work this hard to stay safe?”_

_Sam met his eyes. “Angry spirits come from a violent or unnatural death. I remember Dad telling us that.”_

_“Yes, that’s true.”_

_“Well, there’s a lot of unnatural death in this place, Dean.”_

_Dean understood, and the implication staggered him. Fear washed over Dean like a river of ice. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t help Sam. Not even their father would have taken this on._

_“The last time I ran into the pissed-off spirit of a psychic kid, she used me to kill my dad,” Dean said flatly._

_Sam blanched at the mention of Rachel. “I guess that’s a no.”_

_“I’m sorry, Sammy.” He couldn’t look at his brother._

_“I understand, Dean. But I have to do this. I can’t abandon these children.”_

_Children. Shit._

_Dean remembered Sam embracing Rachel’s spirit on the road to Willow Creek and he knew Sam would never let this go. Sam was no hunter; he didn’t understand what he was facing. Dean could not let him do it alone._

_“Alright, Sam. I’ll come.” Dean thought he was signing his own death warrant with the words._


	3. Chapter 3

Dean opened the trunk of the Impala, propped it open with a shotgun and pulled out his ammo supply. He checked every box carefully, making certain he had enough of everything: rock salt rounds, lead bullets, buckshot and iron. He lifted the cover off his tray of knives. None were missing. He had salt, holy water and consecrated oil. His father’s journal was in its usual place. When Dean hunted with his dad, he hadn’t needed to check supplies so closely; he’d always known exactly what was in the car. Now he checked because he and Jo had been sharing supplies lately. But he was all stocked up.

Dean added his duffel to the trunk and closed it.

“Ready to go?” Jo’s voice came from behind him.

For just a second, Dean was confused, then he remembered the skinwalker. “Sorry, Jo. Change of plan. I have to get to Colorado, fast.”

“Because of your brother?” Jo guessed. She shifted the weight of the bag on her shoulder.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He’s…” (_trying to get me killed_) “He needs my help,” he amended.

“Well, I’ll come with you,” Jo offered at once, moving as if to open the trunk.

“What about the skinwalker?”

Jo hesitated. “I’ll ask mom to get someone else on it. We’ve done all the research already; the job’s a simple track and kill.”

That she would use the word _simple_ showed she’d never hunted a skinwalker before. Dean looked at her. Jo was dressed for a hunt: her long hair tied back, a long-sleeved shirt that he knew concealed a knife or two, her sidearm in plain sight over black, loose-fitting jeans, practical boots. Dean could use the company and he already knew Sam’s hunt was likely to be more than he could handle alone. But that was _why_ he shouldn’t take Jo into this mess.

But if he didn’t, would she go after the skinwalker alone? Which was more dangerous? Dean didn’t know.

“Jo, how do you feel about psychics?”

Jo cast her eyes down as she considered the question. “I don’t know, uh…sometimes they’re useful.”

“So you’ve worked with a psychic before?”

She nodded. “Twice. Bobby does, too.”

“You ever hunted one?”

Her eyes went a little wide. “No. Have you?”

“Yeah. With my dad.” It had taken John seventeen years to track down the pyro who killed his wife, Dean’s mom. He wasn’t the first rouge psychic John had put down, either. _If it’s supernatural, we kill it._ Words to live by.

“_Could_ you do it, Jo?” Dean pressed.

This time Jo didn’t look down. She met his eyes, her gaze clear. “Truth? I don’t know. I’ve never killed a human before.”

Well, at least that was honest. Dean looked into her eyes and knew that if he told her to stay home, she would only follow him anyway. He opened the trunk for her. “If you come with me, you might not come back. Do you get that, Jo?”

“Goes with the job,” she said determinedly, lifting her bag into the trunk.

That was the steel in her he’d always admired. You couldn’t accuse Jo of lacking guts. “Got a long drive ahead of us,” he said gruffly. “Tell Ellen what you’ve gotta, and make it fast.”

***

Even with Dean pushing the Impala to her best speed, it was late afternoon by the time they reached the Psi Project compound. To Dean, it looked like a prison: the high perimeter fence was topped with barbed wire, the gateway boasted a heavy automated barrier and the guard hut before the entrance was manned by a flesh-and-blood guard, not run by a computer somewhere. Inside the perimeter fence, separated from it by a few metres of grass, was a tall hedge which hid everything within from sight. The Impala’s engine rumbled as he drew up outside the guard hut and rolled his window down.

“Dean Winchester,” he told the guard. “They should be expecting me.” He offered an ID that declared him to be five years older than he was and born in Miami. The ID was very sincere.

The guard took his ID from him and scanned the embedded ident. chip. “Who’s that?” he asked, squinting past Dean.

“My partner. JoBeth Harvelle.”

The guard frowned. “I’ve got your name, Mr Winchester, and your ID is cleared for entry, but I’ve got nothing about a partner. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you both pass.”

Damn. Dean kept his friendly smile in place. “My fault, I guess. I wasn’t told I needed to call ahead.”

“I can’t let you in without clearance, sir.”

Dean held out his hand for his ID. “Fine. Can you recommend a motel nearby? I understood this was urgent but if we can’t go in, we’ll wait.”

“Just a moment, sir, I’ll call it through. I’ll need your partner’s ID.”

Jo handed it over and they waited while the guard made the call.

“What if they won’t let us in?” she asked Dean.

“They will,” Dean answered confidently. “And if they don’t we’ll hole up for the night and head out tomorrow.”

“Without trying again?” Jo sounded surprised.

“If we don’t show up tonight, I won’t need to call. Sam’ll find me.” And if Sam didn’t…would Dean turn away from this, knowing Sam was probably in trouble?

The guard returned both of their IDs. “Doctor Grey is on his way to meet you. Follow the road to the left. You’ll need to leave your car at the monorail station.”

_Not a chance!_ Dean thought, but he didn’t argue with the guard. “Thanks,” he answered, and and as the barrier ahead of them rose, he drove forward into the compound.

The last time Dean was at the Psi Project, his father had been driving. It was the day he was told his brother was dead.

The road led them through two further automated gates, then through a gap in the fir hedge which opened into a parking lot with many cars parked. Dean slid into a space beneath a tree. “Arm up, Jo,” he advised. “Salt and iron.”

“You’re going to leave the car?” She sounded shocked.

“Not if I have a choice, but let’s talk to Sam first.” Dean stripped off his jacket as he walked around to the trunk. He slid matching iron knives into his sleeves, clipping each into place. He pulled out a duffel and placed a shotgun, ammo and a tub of salt.

Beside him, Jo added salt to her backpack. “Is it a spirit we’re hunting here?”

Dean looked at her. “I hope not, but yeah. Sam told me he stopped it with salt.” He didn’t explain the _I hope not_. He didn’t want to frighten her. But he couldn’t help remembering the night he’d been forced to murder his own father. The spirit of a psychic made for a fucking dangerous ghost.

They headed into the monorail building. There were no more guards; at least not of the human variety. They walked through a doorway that Dean was sure carried passive sensors but it didn’t seem to react to their weapons. Once inside, a moving stairway carried them upward to the platform. Dean could hear the hum of the approaching train before they got to the top.

Jo took in a nervous breath.

Dean glanced at her.

She shrugged. “All this tech,” she explained.

Dean nodded, understanding. For Jo, this was like walking into a different world. The Roadhouse used no automation and very little of the latest tech. Dean, too, preferred to rely on older technologies: his car, a gun, a blade, things he understood.

The train, a single, silver carriage, drew into the platform just as Dean and Jo reached it. The doors swished open and Sam stepped out.

“Dean,” he said, relief evident in his voice. “Man, I’m glad to see you.”

Dean smiled. “Good to see you, too, Sammy. You had me worried.” He gestured to Jo. “This is Jo Harvelle. Jo…”

Sam offered his hand formally. “Sam Grey. Or…Winchester, once. Any friend of Dean’s.”

Jo smiled and shook his hand. “Thanks.”

“Sam, I need my car,” Dean interrupted quickly.

“I know. The monorail is the only way anyone gets into the main compound, but there is a road for emergency vehicles. Director Gilbert will have to authorise you bringing the car in and he won’t do that until he’s met you.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Red tape or paranoia?”

“Mostly paranoia. What goes on inside the Project is secret for a reason.” He half-turned back toward the train. “Will you come with me now?”

Dean didn’t like leaving his car behind, but he followed Sam.

***

“In my _expert_ opinion,” Dean announced to the room, “you’re in trouble.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Dean was pissed and he made no attempt to hide it. He was in a conference room with a bunch of suits. Suits who expected him to clean up their mess, but who wouldn’t bend their stupid rules and let him have his car. Having listened to everyone’s version of what had been happening, Dean wanted to tell Sam they were leaving right-the-hell-now…but he knew Sam wouldn’t listen to him.

“If that’s the best you can do – ” Wesley Bishop began.

Dean interrupted him smoothly. “Now, I’m gonna tell you what to do about it.” He spoke directly to Bishop. “You probably ain’t gonna like it and I don’t give a fuck. You’ll do as I say, or more people will die.” He looked around the room. Jo was stifling a grin. Sam was watching Director Gilbert who, in his turn, met Dean’s eyes cooly.

“What do you recommend?” Gilbert asked.

“First,” Dean announced, addressing Gilbert this time, “we have to protect the children. That means we need a room big enough for all of them to sleep in. That will be our bunker.”

Silence greeted Dean’s announcement. He could see several people getting ready to object.

But it was Sam who spoke first. “I don’t think there’s any one room big enough, Dean. The largest would probably be the main dining hall but even if we remove all the tables there wouldn’t be room for more than…I don’t know Maybe a hundred. There’s twice that number of children here.”

“What if we leave the tables?” Jo suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“Leave the tables,” she repeated. “If we remove all the chairs, then some children can sleep on the tables, others underneath on the floor.”

Dean nodded. “It’s not a bad plan,” he agreed. To Sam he added, “We’ve got to do it, Sam, even if it means no one gets any sleep. One room we can protect.”

“For how long?” Director Gilbert asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean answered honestly. “We’ll need Tamara or another medium to help us. With luck we can take care of this before tomorrow night but that’s gonna take a lot of luck. This is a mess.” He looked at Director Gilbert with contempt. “Relax, I don’t bill by the hour.”

“Dean,” Sam began, “I don’t think Tamara…”

“No choice, Sammy. The spirit could be _any_ of the kids in the cemetery. We can’t salt-and-burn them all. We’ve got to identify the spirits causing the trouble.”

Sam stared at him belligerently for a moment, making Dean wonder what his brother wanted to say. He waited, but in the end Sam just nodded. “Alright. I’ll ask her.” He turned to Director Gilbert. “But there’s one more person I need to talk to. Jennifer Tager.”

Before the director could answer, Bishop interrupted. “She’s in isolation.”

“I’m aware of it.” Sam kept his eyes on Gilbert. “You promised me full access. It’s important if we’re going to fix this, Andy.”

Bishop spoke again, harshly. “She’s in isolation. You can’t – ”

Gilbert cut him off. “Why Jennifer Tager? Her power isn’t anything that can help you here.”

Dean was wondering the same thing. Sam hadn’t mentioned this girl’s name to him.

“It’s not about her power. Her name came up as a connection. I need to talk with her, and, since she’s in isolation, I need to get her to trust me first. That means getting her out. I know it can only be temporary, but I need to know what she knows.”

Director Gilbert nodded. “I’ll arrange it.”

“No!” Bishop blurted.

Gilbert looked at him sharply. “This doesn’t change Jennifer’s situation, Wes, but Sam is here at our request. We will cooperate.”

Sam visibly relaxed. Dean couldn’t help noticing and wondered why on earth Sam wouldn’t have mentioned this to him if it were so important. They were going to have a talk about this. Later. In private. He met Sam’s eyes briefly, letting him know. Sam gave a small nod.

Dean turned to Jo. “We need to get the rest of our gear from my car. Can someone show me how to operate the monorail?”

“I’ll show you,” Sam offered. “It’s all automated.”

_You people rely too much on tech._ “Good,” Dean said. “Let’s get started.”

***

Between them, Dean and Jo nearly emptied the Impala’s trunk. They left some of the more exotic items, but took all of the guns, everything iron – knives, bullets, some other things – and salt. Lots of salt. What would not fit into their bags they stacked on the monorail platform before summoning the train. It was controlled by computer and automatically returned to the compound when empty: more evidence of the Project’s paranoia, Dean decided.

“Dean,” Jo said, while they waited for the train to return,” what is Sam scared of?”

Dean sat down on one of the benches. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“We know we’re hunting a spirit. The ghost of a psychic is usually more powerful and more dangerous than a regular spririt. And Sam hinted that there’s more than one at work here. What if it’s not three or four? What if it’s all of them?”

Jo blanched. “Is that possible?”

“They’ve got a graveyard full of murdered children. Yeah, I’d say it’s possible.”

“Holy shit.” Jo shook her head as the full meaning became clear to her. “You know we should pass on this.”

Dean stood as the train rolled into the station. “Jo, if you want to bail, I’ll drive you to the airport. I won’t think any worse of you for it. But I already took the job.” He’d known what he was getting into. Jo hadn’t. She was entitled to the out.

The train doors whooshed open and Dean picked up two of the bags. He looked at Jo. “Are you in?” he asked seriously.

Jo swallowed. “If you’re staying, so am I.” She picked up the largest tub of salt and hefted it into the train.

It took them a while to get everything on board. Dean and Jo worked in silence. Dean knew Jo wouldn’t back out. He admired her guts, but he didn’t want to be the one who got her killed. He _would_ do it, though. He would take Jo into a hunt he knew was deadly dangerous because Sam asked him for help and Sam was all the family Dean had left.

He headed into the front of the train to start it on the journey back. Though the monorail didn’t need an actual driver, the front section, separated from the main carriage by a flimsy door, was set up like a cockpit, with a seat for the “driver”, a control dashboard and a clear window giving a full view of the way ahead. Dean gazed out along the rail: the monorail curved gently over the compound. The perimeter hedge was at least twelve feet high but the monorail was much higher. Dean estimated the rail was about thirty feet above the ground. It was supported by regular-spaced towers. Dean could see the power lines hanging in great curves beneath the rail.

As the train began to move, Dean headed back to Jo. She stood at the window where she could look down at the compound as they crossed the land. It was getting dark out there, so there wasn’t much to see: dark shapes of hedges and trees and the lights along the pathways, each illuminating a small patch of green. Dean moved up to her side. Suddenly, he wanted to hold her, but he resisted the impulse. They stood side by side, not quite touching. They were over the cemetery now, the grave markers mere shadows in the darkness.

“I never thought,” Jo said quietly, “about what they do here. All those graves…” The lights of the train flickered and Jo gasped.

The train jerked to a halt, throwing Dean into Jo’s body. Jo grabbed for the nearest seat, steadying them both. She fell to her knees. Dean, with nothing solid to hold except her, fell more awkwardly. He rolled away from Jo, grabbing for the nearest shotgun. As his hand touched it, the train shuddered again, and began to move.

Dean felt relief wash over him, but an instant later he knew the movement he felt was wrong. “Jo!” he yelled the warning, though there was no need to shout. “Hold on tight!”

The sound came, then, the unmistakable groan of warping metal. The train was moving alright. It was going forward and _down_, and picking up speed.

***

Jennifer Tager was sixteen years old. Through the one-way glass of her room in the isolation wing, Sam saw a girl with long, blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her hair had a natural curl that reminded Sam strongly of his wife, Jess. She wore simple clothing: blue jeans with a loose-fitting, long-sleeved pink top. Her feet were bare. Jennifer was curled up on the bed, engrossed in a book. That she was oblivious to Sam’s presence confirmed for him that she wasn’t a telepath or empath. According to her file, Jennifer was a healer, but why would a healer be in isolation, one interview away from the deathlist? She must have some secondary power that was dangerous.

Sam knocked on her door.

Jennifer’s head jerked up. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

“My name is Sam Grey. May I come in?”

“Only if you’ve got the key.”

There was no “key”: Sam unlocked the door by punching a security code into the keypad above the lock.

Jennifer sat up as he entered. “Who are you?”

Sam repeated his name. “I’m a dreamwalker,” he added. The Psi Project tradition of defining himself by his psychic ability was becoming a habit again. “Is it okay if I sit down?” he asked gently.

She nodded.

There was no chair; Sam sat down on the end of the bed. “I’m here to take you out of isolation, Jennifer,” he explained. “It’s only temporary,” he went on quickly, not wanting to give her false hope, “but I’ve promised your friends I’ll try to help you.”

“Why would you help me?” she asked, her eyes narrow with obvious suspicion.

“Because I need their help. Tamara and Colin. They both say you shouldn’t be here. Is that true?”

Jennifer shrugged, a gesture that could have meant anything. She gave no verbal reply.

“You don’t trust me,” Sam answered for her. “That’s okay, I understand. We’ll talk later, after you’ve seen the others.” He stood. He remembered his own year in isolation and supressed a shudder. “Come on. I’ll take you to your friends.”

Jennifer set her book aside and Sam saw the title: it was Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_. Jennifer reached under the bed for her shoes – flimsy rubber sandals – slipped them onto her feet and followed Sam from the room.

“Frankenstein?” he asked as they walked.

“I like it,” she answered, almost shyly. “The idea that he could actually create life. It’s scary.”

“Most people in the pit don’t like scary,” Sam commented. “I never did.”

She stopped walking. “You?” Then, as Sam turned to face her, comprehension filled her eyes. “Oh! You’re the dreamwalker.”

“Yes, I am.”

And now Sam saw the hope in her he hadn’t wanted to see. “When you said you would help…?” she began eagerly.

“I said I would _try_. But you’ll need to be honest with me, Jennifer. Completely honest.”

“I will.”

“Then we’ll talk later.” Sam reached the exit door and punched in the code. After a short delay the door clicked open. Sam heard Jennifer’s breath catch in her throat. He understood what she was feeling; she’d probably never expected to leave the pit. Sam wanted to take her hand, to reassure her, but he didn’t do it.

Colin was waiting outside the door. For a moment he stared at Jennifer. Then Sam stepped aside and the two teenagers moved toward each other. They each hugged the other tightly, not caring that Sam and the two security guards were watching them. When they started kissing Sam cleared his throat pointedly.

Colin broke away and shot a glance at Sam. «_Spoilsport,_» he sent.

Sam smiled. “We have to meet the others, Colin.”

Colin drew back from Jennifer but kept her hand in his. “Tammy said she’ll help, but I don’t think she should.”

“If I think she’s in danger, I’ll put a stop to it,” Sam assured him. “But I trust Dean, and he says we need her ability.” He opened the far door for them to leave the isolation wing.

After finding Tamara, they all took the elevator to the roof. The monorail station took up about half of the roof space: a covered platform with a line of benches. The whole of the roof was paved with a wrought-iron railing around the roof-edge, making a place for people to walk. Colin and Jennifer walked over to the railing. Sam, understanding their need for privacy, gave them what little he could. He and Tamara sat down on one of the benches to wait for Dean and Jo.

“What does Dean want me to do?” Tamara asked him. She was physically recovered from the previous night but her voice trembled a little as she spoke. She was frightened, and Sam couldn’t blame her.

But her fear only provoked Sam. He was angry with the Project for teaching Tamara to live in fear. Angry with the spirit for tormenting her. Furious with himself because he couldn’t get to the bottom of this alone.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he told her, struggling to keep the anger from his voice. “Dean wants you to help identify the spirit so he can make all of this stop.”

“But I can’t!” she protested.

Sam took her hand. “Tamara, no one will force you to do anything. Dean and Jo are good hunters. Just listen to what they want. If it’s too much, you don’t have to do it.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not – ” She broke off.

They both heard it: the groan of steel under great pressure. Sam felt the roof beneath them shaking. He ran to the edge of the roof, searching the darkness with his eyes.

“Oh, my god. No!”

The monorail train was more than halfway along its route, but it had stopped. The support just ahead of the train, the one closest to the cemetery perimeter, was collapsing. Or shrinking. But that was impossible…wasn’t it? Sam saw a glow at the base of the support, but couldn’t tell what it was. The rail itself was bending under the weight of the train and being dragged down by the falling tower. The movement was terrifyingly slow, but there was no doubt: the train was about to fall.

“It’s them!” Tamara cried.

Her voice broke through Sam’s frozen terror. “Come on!” he shouted, and ran for the elevator. He had no idea what he could do, but he knew, with the absolute certainty of a psychic, that they _had _to reach the field below before the train fell.

***

“Jo?” Dean groaned as his senses returned to him. His head hurt like a son of a bitch. He was lying on something hard and solid. There was a weight across his thighs: something heavy enough to prevent him getting up. Dean tried to reach downward to feel whatever it was and pain shot through his side. His head filled with clouds and he let his hand fall. The surface below him was cold against his clenched fist. “Jo?” he called again, louder.

“Dean?” Jo’s voice came from above him. It sounded like a long way above him. “Dean, don’t move. You’re on the windshield and I don’t know how strong it is.”

On the _windshield_? Dean stretched out his hand, palm down. Sure enough, the surface beneath him was glass. But he was on his back, and it sure felt like _down_ so that meant…oh, holy shit it meant the train was at ninety degrees. It meant they were dangling from the monorail like the bus in _The Italian Job_. It meant the train might fall at any second.

“Dean?” Jo called again.

Dean frowned into the darkness above him. He couldn’t see a damn thing. “I’m here. I’m okay,” he called back.

“I’ve got a rope in my pack. Lie still, Dean. I’m coming to you.”

That didn’t sound right. Damn it, he needed to see what was happening! “Jo? Do you have a flashlight?”

“I tried. It’s not working.”

Damn. “I ain’t scared of the dark.” It sounded weak, even to him. The glass was warming under his hand.

“Are you okay?” Jo asked.

“Super.” Dean tasted blood in his mouth.

Dean could hear her working above him. If she fell…if _anything_ fell, what would happen? Would this glass break? Of course it would. Dean turned his head, trying to look down, but he could not tell how far above the ground they were. It felt like a long way, but that could be his own fear fuelling imagination. He couldn’t _see_.

Above, he heard Jo moving around. She would have to tie her rope to something secure and find a way to pay it out so she could climb down safely. If anything could be safe like this.

There was a seat in the cockpit, Dean remembered. It was one of those swivel-seat chairs fixed to the floor. If he was on the windshield, it must be somewhere above him. He reached out to his sides, feeling around, trying to orient himself. He found what he thought was the control board. Okay…that meant the seat was right above his face. That might explain why he couldn’t see much.

Dean tried to raise a hand, feeling blindly into the dark in front of his face. The movement sent agony through his arm and he cried out involuntarily.

“Dean?”

“I’m okay,” he said hoarsely. “My arm’s broken, I think.” But that didn’t seem right. It hadn’t hurt badly until he tried to move.

“I’m coming down. Stay where you are, Dean.”

Dean had little choice but to do as she said. He listened to her moving, slowly and carefully, using the seats almost like a ladder. He slid his hand across the control board. There was pain, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much if he moved slowly. He wanted to find the edge of the board, so he could get himself off this glass.

Then he heard Jo scream. There was a crash from above him.

Dean had time to shout, “Jo!”

Something hit the glass beside him. For the space between heartbeats, Dean thought it was alright. Then the glass shattered.

***

“Dean!”

Sam saw him fall, just a dark shape against the sky. He flung up a hand, reaching out desperately with his power, but Sam’s telekinetic ability had always been erratic and random. He had to watch Dean fall, helpless to save him or even soften the impact. Dean hit the ground in a rain of broken glass, just as Sam reached him.

“I need a light!” Sam called desperately to the teenagers accompanying him. “And someone call 911!” He knew, even as he said it, that it was too late.

Dean lay on his side, his body in an awkward position. He wasn’t moving. Sam pulled the collar of Dean’s shirt away from his neck, seeking a pulse. After a moment, he felt the beat beneath his fingertips. Sam bent closer. “Dean, can you hear me?” He didn’t even consider his own danger, the monorail train directly above them, ready to fall.

“Is he alive?” Jennifer asked urgently. She knelt on the grass on Dean’s other side and laid her hands on his shoulders, pushing Sam’s hands out of the way as she slid her hands slowly upward along his neck to his jaw.

Sam let her push him away, but he didn’t like it.

“He’s breathing,” Sam answered. He didn’t know what to do. Sam was a doctor, but he’d only done the minimum required on trauma; he was a psychiatrist, not a medical doctor. All he remembered from his training told him this was hopeless. No one could survive a fall from such a height…but Sam could not accept that.

“His neck isn’t broken,” Jennifer announced, “but it’s the only thing that isn’t. Help me get him onto his back.” She held Dean’s neck steady.

Sam helped Jennifer to move Dean, although he knew it was dangerous. Dean made no sound, and the movement should have hurt him. Sam’s rising panic made it hard to think. _Oh, god, Dean, don’t die. Please don’t die._

Jennifer looked up to the others. “Tammy, run back to the centre. Bring Paolo and Kim. Alice, too, if she’ll come.” She rapped out the orders as if she’d done this many times before.

“Right!” Tamara sped off.

Jennifer pushed Sam out of the way and cupped Dean’s face between her hands.

“Stop!” Sam protested. She seemed to know what she was doing, but Jennifer could hurt Dean. There was a chance – a very slim chance – that he would survive this, but Jennifer might injure him even as she tried to help.

“He’ll die,” Jennifer snapped. “I can help, but you’ve got to do what I say.”

“She’s a healer,” Colin reminded him. He knelt on the grass beside Sam.

Sam had forgotten. Hope surged in his heart for a moment. But he knew this was beyond psychic healing. Perhaps Jennifer could take away Dean’s pain; he doubted she could do more. Still, that in itself was worth something.

“What do you need?” Sam asked, giving her his trust.

Instead of answering Sam, Jennifer spoke to Colin. “Col, I need you to bridge us.”

“You and Sam? Or all three of you?”

“Just Sam.”

Sam didn’t know what she meant, but he bit back his questions. There wasn’t time.

“Sam, I want you to protect his mind. Take him into Dream and push him as deep as you can. Enough that he won’t notice the pain. Can you do that?”

She sounded as if she understood Sam’s power, but what she was asking held a lot of risks. Sam could push a mind deep into unconsciousness, so deep that the person couldn’t wake up without help. But it was possible to go too far: to create a permanent coma. It wasn’t brain-death, not exactly, but the effect was the same.

“I can’t do that without dreaming myself,” Sam objected.

“Relax,” Jennifer insisted. “Colin will get you there.”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out. He reached for Dean’s hand; the physical touch wasn’t necessary but this_had_ to work. Every little would help. As Sam relaxed his body he felt Colin’s touch on his mind. Reacting instinctively, Sam shoved the psychic invasion away.

«_Stop shielding!_» Colin sent imperatively.

Sam obeyed and instantly his mind was enfolded by Colin’s. It was like floating in warm water, a psychic embrace. It was easy to relax into it, to let Colin coax him toward a dream-state. When it felt right, Sam reached out toward Dean’s mind.

The moment he felt Dean with him, Sam understood why he’d been reluctant to do this. He had been afraid the connection wouldn’t happen, that Dean’s mind was already gone. In spite of his medical training, breath and heartbeat were not _life_ to Sam. This was: the touch of mind to mind. Dean was alive!

Sam didn’t create a dream for them to share. Instead he did what Jennifer had asked. He created a kind of psychic blanket to protect Dean’s mind and then pushed him deep into unconsciousness, into a place where there was no dream, no thought…and no pain. It was so deep Sam could barely follow, but he retained a kind of mental tether, a thin thread that would let him pull Dean out, when they were ready.

This was the absolute limit of Sam’s power. If it wasn’t Dean, he wouldn’t have done this unless he was trying to make the man a vegetable. But he always had a special connection with Dean. Blood calls to blood. He could keep Dean safely in this state and he could bring him back.

Sam should have felt alone in his dream-state, but then he sensed another mind with him. Or…not quite with him. He heard Jennifer’s mental voice like an echo through a long tunnel. Of course! It was Colin. Somehow, he had tied them together, using his own telepathy as the link.

«_Sam. Is he under?_» Jennifer’s words came through to him clearly.

«_Yes._»

«_Finally! Hold him there._» There was a pause and then Jennifer went on, no longer directing her thoughts to Sam, but still allowing him to hear. «_He’s losing blood fast…there’s a tear in his lung…broken ribs…damn, his chest is like soup…okay, one thing at a time…_»

«_Don’t interrupt her,_» Colin sent, just as Sam had been about to do exactly that. «_It’s okay. She can do this._»

Sam felt out of his depth. In just a few minutes these two teenagers had demonstrated psychic abilities Sam had never imagined possible. Jennifer’s file said she was a healer but this was more than healing. _What was she?_

«_…That’s it…I’ve sealed the lung…his heart is okay, but…oh, this is a mess…I can’t…_»

«_Jenn, if it’s too much…_»

«_No, I can do it…there’s another bleed somewhere…I can’t find it…oh!_» 

_What the hell are you doing to my brother?_ Sam wanted to ask. His involuntary thought must have been known to Colin, but the boy didn’t relay it to Jennifer.

«_Found it!_» Jennifer announced. «_I need to check his spine, make sure it’s safe to move him…Colin, I need a knife…something sharp._»

That was too much. «_Why do you need to cut him?_» Sam demanded through the psychic link.

«_He was bleeding internally,_» Jenn returned distractedly. «_I’ve stopped the bleeding but all that blood is filling his chest cavity, stopping his lung from re-inflating properly. It has to go somewhere._» Her psychic voice fell silent, then she added, «_I’m just going to cut in to drain some of the blood off. It’ll look a mess, but it’s going to save his life, Sam. You need to trust me._»

«_Finish up, Jenn,_» Colin warned urgently. «_Someone’s coming._»

«_If I stop now the broken ribs are going to rip through his lungs again…I need time to bring the bones and cartilege together…that’s it…just one more… Sam, do you hear me?_»

«_I hear you._»

«_You can start to bring him up now. Get him into a normal dream-state if you can._»

«_Is he…?_»

«_I think he’ll live, but there’s going to be a lot of pain._»

Dean had sunk even deeper while Jennifer worked on him. Sam reached along the tether for Dean and, at first, he found nothing there. He tried again, and found it, faint and sinking further. He cast out toward that faint sense of Dean and began, slowly, to draw his mind back toward consciousness. It seemed to take far too long but finally Sam felt Dean’s mind…open.

Immediately Sam created a dream around them, something he hoped Dean would find comfortable and familiar. It was a green field with a wooden gate and Dean’s car beside them, polished and shining in the moonlight. Jennifer and Colin stood on the other side of the gate. Sam hadn’t brought them into the dream; Colin had done that.

Jennifer smiled. “I’ve never worked with a dreamwalker before. You made it much easier, Sam.”

“Thank you,” he answered, and knew she would understand he wasn’t thanking her for the compliment, but for what she’d done.

“What the hell?” Dean demanded. He stood beside Sam, uninjured in the dream. He looked angry.

“You were hurt…” Sam started to explain.

“There’s not much time,” Jennifer interrupted. She looked at Dean. “This is a dream.”

Dean’s look was impatient. “Thanks for the memo, sweetheart. I figured that out for myself.”

“Fine then. You fell from the monorail. You were badly hurt. You’ll be okay, but we need to get you to the infirmary. When you wake up, you’re going to be in pain. All your instincts will tell you to fight what we need to do, but you mustn’t. Remember we’re helping you and don’t fight it. Do you understand?”

“No,” Dean answered, with a half-twisted smile, “but I can take orders. Don’t fight. I’ve got it.” His smile vanished, “Now, who the hell are you and what’s going on?”

“I’m Jenn,” she answered, ignoring his second question. “Sam, Colin will dissolve the bridge now. Once we’re gone, you can wake Dean.”

***

The journey back to the Psi Project Centre was the strangest thing Dean had experienced in a life full of weirdness.

When he woke, all he could think about was the pain. It was like this huge wave, overwhelming him. He tried to move, to find a more comfortable position, and of course that made it worse. He cried out involuntarily, fighting his body’s urge to writhe.

Sam’s face loomed out of the shadows. “Dean, you’re alright. Can you hear me? You’re going to be alright.”

He didn’t feel alright! But Sam’s voice helped to calm him, and Dean remembered the girl’s admonition in the dream: _Don’t fight_. He tried to obey, concentrating on his breathing. God, that hurt!

The girl from the dream appeared then. “Dean, we’re going to carry you to the Centre infirmary.” She spoke to two people Dean couldn’t see, then, to Dean: “This will feel very strange, but as long as you don’t fight it, it won’t hurt any more than lying still. It’s the safest way.”

“Okay,” Dean answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

_Strange_ didn’t begin to cover it. Dean’s whole body felt hot and suddenly he couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. It was as if his muscles simply froze. He couldn’t even move his face, though, somehow, breathing wasn’t a problem. A moment later, his body rose from the ground.

There was a lot of light. Dean couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It had been night, or at least twilight when the monorail went haywire. Surely he hadn’t been unconscious all night?

“Jennifer, are you sure…?” Sam asked.

A male voice answered, “Dude, chill. This is easy.”

Dean would have smiled if he could. Maybe Sam had reason to worry but as weird as this was, it seemed to be working. Floating on air, Dean saw a line of white below him. Was that salt? Did someone lay down a salt circle?

Wait, where was Jo? He hadn’t seen her anywhere. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Dean tried to ask, but whatever was keeping his body frozen preventing him from speaking, too.

He remembered Jo was on the monorail with him. She’d been trying to climb down, when…Jo had screamed. But Jo _never_ screamed. Oh, god, did she fall, too? But if Jo had fallen, why wasn’t anyone helping _her_? She had to be hurt as badly as he was…or she might be dead.

When he finally allowed himself to face that thought, the dark pit opening up inside took Dean completely off-guard. He thought about leaving this place alone, going on to the next hunt without her…and he couldn’t do it. Jo had become such a huge part of his life since he lost his father, picturing a future without her was impossible. He’d convinced himself they were just friends, sometimes hunting partners, sometimes fuck-buddies. When had she come to mean so much to him? And why did he only see it when it was too late?

A moment later Dean saw what was left of the monorail tower and the sight drove even his grief from his mind. The monorail towers were made of metal riveted into a lattice structure, wider at the bottom than at the top, like a hydro tower. Dean hadn’t considered how a structure like that could have collapsed, as it must have for the train to have fallen, but he would have expected part of the structure to be broken, or warped. But that wasn’t what he saw.

The base of the monorail tower looked as if it had melted - literally liquefied. Shit, no wonder the monorail collapsed. But those towers had to be reinforced steel; what kind of heat would it take to melt it like that? Dean thought he’d probably known the melting point of steel once, but he couldn’t remember. He thought it was probably well over a thousand degrees. Anything that could create that kind of heat would have started a major fire. It made no sense that only the base of the tower had been exposed.

They formed a circle around him as Dean floated, held by the powers of two psychics, across the grass. It was an uneventful, if strange, trip, though after they crossed that salt line Dean was braced for some kind of attack. He wouldn’t be much help to them if there was trouble.

That was when it hit him: maybe he never would. How badly was he injured? He hurt _everywhere_. He tasted blood in his mouth, and felt the sticky-warmth of blood soaking through his shirt. It was bad. Oh, God, it was bad.

Where was Jo?


	4. Chapter 4

“The most any of these kids are guilty of is not telling what they knew,” Sam insisted. “And I can’t blame them for that.”

He was in Director Gilbert’s office again, facing him across the desk, and Sam didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be in the infirmary with Dean. Jennifer had done her best for him and the Project’s infirmary was as well-equipped as any hospital, but even so, Sam was worried. He didn’t just want Dean to live; he wanted him to recover. But it had been such a terrible fall.

“Who knew?” Andy demanded. He was seated at the desk, framed by the window behind him, while Sam stood. Sam didn’t mind standing: he was too angry to sit still.

Sam made an impatient gesture. “I’m not going to tell you that. Andy, _listen_ to me. You’re not a psychic. You have no idea what it’s like to grow up in this place. You see one friend go into isolation and not come back and every adult turns into the enemy. Of course no one told you!” Sam began to pace again. “I don’t even know if we can fix it now.” _Without Dean,_ he added silently.

Andy rose from the chair and gazed out of the window. Had it been daylight, he could have seen the whole mess of the monorail from where he stood. He gazed out into the darkness as if he could see it anyway. “Sam, you keep talking as if I don’t know what’s happening to these children. Do you think me so uncaring?”

Sam turned to face him. “I don’t know, Andy. _Do_ you understand what’s happening?”

“Understand? Perhaps not. But I know my kids are in danger.”

Sam took a deep breath. “You’d better sit down.”

Andy met his eyes briefly, then nodded. Instead of sitting back at the desk he gestured to the seating area on the other side of the room, inviting Sam to sit with him. Sam settled himself in one of the plush leather seats and waited for Andy to sit, too.

Andy looked tired. Sam studied him for a moment, seeing him not as the Director but as a man. Sam saw the morality of the Psi Project in simple, black-and-white terms: It was wrong to kill children. Period. In that moment, studying the drawn features of the man responsible for that life-and-death policy, Sam acknowledged that Andy’s ethics were more complex. But the man still had ethics.

“I’m not going to debate the rights and wrongs of this with you, Andy, but ask yourself this: how many children has the Psi Project condemned since it started?”

Andy met Sam’s look wearily. “I can tell you exactly. Three hundred and twenty eight.”

_Holy God…_ Sam swallowed. “And of those three hundred and twenty eight,” he said slowly, his mind still grappling with that figure, “how many do you think believed there was any justice in it?”

Andy spread his hands. “I doubt any of them did. You can’t expect children to understand…”

“No, you can’t. And that’s the problem. You see, when someone is murdered, or dies in some…unnatural way, sometimes their spirit can’t rest. The spirit stays around and it becomes…angry. Crazy.”

“You’re telling me ghost stories?” A note of irritation crept into the older man’s voice.

“Yes!” Sam insisted. He had been just as sceptical when Dean tried to tell him about the ghost haunting the Woodward Institute. But Sam couldn’t afford to be gentle about this. Andy _had_ to understand. “Not just ghosts, Andy. The spirit of a dead psychic is different. They are stronger and, frankly, scarier.” He pushed the thought of Rachel out of his mind. “What you have here is not just one spirit, it’s many. Their anger is directed at the Project. At _you_. At the kids. At anything they can blame for their deaths.”

Andy closed his eyes. Sam gave him the time he seemed to need.

Finally, Andy spoke, his eyes still closed. “How do we stop them? What do you need?”

It was what Sam had been waiting for: acceptance. “The first priority is to protect the younger children. They’ll have to sleep in the dining hall tonight as we discussed earlier.”

“Done,” Andy said.

“Second, I want to gather everyone involved in the disturbances for a conference. I think it’ll have to be in the infirmary because Dean can’t be moved. And, Andy, it’s essential that those kids can speak freely, so I need all surveilance off. You can’t be there, but I’ll call you in to join us after everyone’s had their say.”

Andy nodded. “I’ll agree to turn off the surveilance if you’ll guarantee me a full report.”

Sam met his eyes. “Done.”

***

Dean had agreed to Sam’s plan, because he wanted to get this damned hunt over with, but all these kids crowding into his hospital room made him uncomfortable. Most of them were strangers to him and being effectively helpless in this bed wasn’t improving his temper. He didn’t complain, though.

Whatever drugs the doctor gave him were the latest stuff. Dean was used to morphine for pain if plain old aspirin wasn’t good enough, but morphine would have knocked him out or sent him high. This stuff kept him pain-free, but his mind was clear and alert. Pain-free was a miracle all by itself. The doctor had explained the extent of his injuries to Dean. His ribs were broken in multiple places. His pelvis and collarbone were broken. Apparently there should have been far worse internal injuries: she’d said it was a miracle none of his major organs were damaged. Dean hadn’t explained. He wasn’t certain he _could_ explain, though he knew the girl in his dream had done something to heal him.

He was lying in a hospital bed, with movement only in his right arm and his head, and a tube in his arm pumping synthetic blood into his veins, but he was alive and that was good enough for now.

No one had told Dean what happened to Jo. That was mostly his fault: he hadn’t asked. He knew she’d been in trouble when he fell from the monorail and didn’t want to hear that she died in a fall that he survived. It was cowardice, plain and simple. Jo was probably his best friend, the one who held him together after his dad died. Dean tried to keep her away from this hunt. If she was gone, it was his fault and, oh God, how was he going to tell Ellen?

Jennifer approached Dean’s bed. She asked permission with a gesture and when Dean nodded she laid her hand on his chest. If she was doing her psychic thing Dean couldn’t feel anything.

Jennifer smiled. “Just broken bones,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks to you,” Dean answered.

“Please, don’t tell them.” Jennifer’s voice was quiet and scared.

Dean didn’t understand her fear - surely healing him was a good thing - but he answered at once. “I promise.” He wasn’t sure the promise would mean much: too many people already knew what she’d done. But he would keep his word.

Jennifer moved away and Dean saw Sam behind her. But there was someone else at Sam’s side: Jo Harvelle.

Dean could hardly believe it. He’d been so sure she must be dead. He couldn’t imagine any way she could have escaped from the falling monorail. But he didn’t care. She was here!

Jo smiled and came right to Dean. She leaned over the bed and kissed him. Dean raised his hand to her hair, keeping her close. Jo had intended just a quick kiss but Dean held her there, making sure it was a real kiss, a long kiss. When Jo drew back, she was a little flushed.

“You’re feeling better,” Jo grinned.

“Apparently I’m held together by pins and wires but yeah, I feel fine.” He still couldn’t quite believe that she was real. “Jo, what happened? How’d you get out?”

Her expression became very serious. “I was trying to reach you when something kinda jumped me. I knocked one of the guns and it fell down.”

“That’s what broke the glass,” Dean guessed.

“Yeah. You fell and…there wasn’t anything I could do. I climbed down myself. The rope wasn’t near long enough to reach the ground but I got close enough that I didn’t break anything when I dropped the rest of the way.”

“I didn’t see you,” Dean frowned. Had he been so out of it that he didn’t recognise Jo? He struggled to remember if she’d been there when he woke. He didn’t remember Jo, but… “I remember seeing salt?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You were out of it, Dean and the others were…well, I didn’t know what they were doing. But I knew the spirits were still out there. I was still wearing my backpack so I used up my salt putting a circle around you, and everyone.” She shook her head. “Dean, it was crazy out there. I’ve worked plenty of hauntings, but this…”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jo squeezed his hand.

“Cut it out.” Just because he was an invalid didn’t mean he’d let Jo treat him like one.

She smiled and moved back to join the others.

***

“There have been stories about the ghosts for years. Longer than I've been here.” Colin addressed Dean directly. He seemed to be the leader of the group. All of the other kids looked at him before they said anything, and while he did the talking none of them ever interrupted him. Dean knew a team when he saw one: the others treated Colin as Dean had always looked to his father. In a way, that made Dean more comfortable: it was something he understood. But it also worried him. Colin was a good kid, as far as Dean could tell, but he was no John Winchester.

“How long have you been here?” Dean asked. He was sitting up in the hospital bed, his back propped up with a padded triangular box. His broken arm hung in a sling at his side and there was stuff under the blankets he didn’t even want to _think_ about. But he wasn’t hurting and he could think clearly.

Now he was going to get to the bottom of this. Sam had given his word that the surveillance was off, and all the kids could speak freely. Dean had given them his promise that he would never tell anyone what they said.

“My parents brought me here when I was five. I’m eighteen this winter.”

Dean did the math in his head, but he wondered why Colin didn’t just say _thirteen years_. There was more information in there. He was five years old when he was enrolled into the Project. Kids weren’t tested for psychic ability that young. His parents brought him here voluntarily.

“They were stories. Things to whisper in the dark. Most of it was made up. Maybe all of it. The first thing I know for certain was real was just over a year ago. Tammi started having nightmares.”

Jennifer was sitting on the floor in front of Colin, leaning back against his knees. His hands rested on her shoulders and he was playing with her hair. It was as if he couldn’t stop touching her. Dean wanted to tell them to get a freaking room.

“Listen, kid, it’s getting late and I've had a really crappy day. I want the short version.”

“Tammi’s a medium. If anyone could see real ghosts it would be her. She told us about the ghosts talking to her. At first it was…like a game. Our secret. Until the dreams started to spread to the other kids.” Colin glared at Dean. “This _is_ the short version,” he snapped.

Sam cut in. “The younger psychics were losing control of their powers in their sleep. For some, that’s just embarrassing – it’s sort of the psychic equivalent of wetting the bed. For others, though, it’s dangerous.”

Tamara spoke up. “That’s when I knew we had to tell someone.”

“So,” Dean asked, determined to get to the point, “why didn’t you?”

Tamara looked at Colin. For a moment they were both silent, then Tamara nodded. “She spoke to Dean. “I was going to tell my mentor, but that’s when they took Jenn to the Pit.”

“The Pit?”

Sam answered, “Isolation. It means she was deathlisted.” Sam turned to Jennifer and Colin. “You've both hinted that there’s a connection. It’s time to tell the truth, Jennifer. Why were you deathlisted? And what does that have to do with Wes Bishop?”

“Can we get to the point, Sam?” Dean insisted impatiently.

“That _is_ the point,” Colin said.

Dean looked at him, just looked.

“The short version, right. Bishop is a monster. Jenn tried to stop him – ”

“No,” Jenn interrupted. “I _did_ stop him.”

“Jenn stopped him and they were going to kill her for it. I asked Tammi not to tell what she knew. She agreed.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I thought that if the haunting got bad enough, there would be a proper investigation. Maybe enough to shut this place down.” He looked at Sam, and the look conveyed a message that Dean couldn’t read.

“Gilbert brought me in to identify the psychic responsible, Colin.” There was anger in Sam’s voice. “If he’d called someone different, you'd have been responsible for someone’s death. Maybe even Tamara’s.”

“I know,” Colin said quietly.

Dean frowned. “This guy Bishop – ”

“He’s a mentor here,” Sam explained.

“That means he’s a psychic, right?”

Sam nodded. “The Project encourages its graduates to come back and mentor. Some people come back because they want to help. Most of them are the ones who couldn’t make it in the real world.”

“So what makes him a monster?” Dean asked. He looked at Jenn.

Jennifer looked down, then met Dean’s eyes defiantly. “He likes young girls.”

Dean understood her instantly. He looked at Sam and saw what he expected. “Sammy,” he warned, his voice low.

Sam spoke through gritted teeth. “Explain that.” One of his fists was clenched so hard that his knuckles were white.

“He likes girls,” Jennifer repeated. “I wasn’t the first. I’m just the first who could defend herself.”

Dean was still watching Sam. He knew better than anyone else what a hot button this was for his brother. “Sam,” he tried again, “she’s not Rachel.”

Sam’s head snapped around. “No,” he growled. “Rachel was _five years old_.”

The pain of her loss was still so raw in him. But Dean had achieved what he intended: to divert Sam’s anger away from Jennifer. He met Sam’s eyes for a moment, letting him know he understood. Then he turned his attention to Jennifer.

Jo had moved to Jennifer’s side and was kneeling on the floor next to her. “Jennifer,” she said softly, “this man raped you?”

Jennifer’s eyes hardened as she looked at Jo. “No. He tried.”

“And you stopped him?” Jo said carefully.

“Yes.”

What did you do?”

“I stopped him.”

“How?”

“Like I fixed Dean today. Only – ”

“What you did for Dean wasn’t just healing, was it?” Sam interrupted. “It was psychic surgery.”

Dean saw Jenn go white, but she nodded. “Yeah.”

“What _exactly_ did you do to Wesley?” Sam asked.

“I…I moved some nerves and constricted some blood vessels.”

Sam winced. “You made him impotent.”

_She could do that?_ Dean was suddenly paying very close attention.

“Not exactly,” Jennifer answered, not meeting Sam’s eyes now.

Jo hadn’t taken her eyes off Jennifer. “Then what, _exactly_? We need to know, honey. It’s okay, you can trust us.”

Jennifer reached for Colin’s hand on her shoulder, but she looked at Jo. “He can still get it up. It just hurts like hell when he does. And, no, I won’t undo it.”

There was a long silence.

Sam was the first to find his voice. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“She can do that?” Dean blurted.

“Yes!” Jennifer hissed defiantly.

“She’s a psychic surgeon,” Sam explained. “It means she can affect the body like a surgeon with a scalpel: she can heal internal injuries, like yours today, or do the opposite. Cause them.” He looked at Jennifer with compassion. “She’s dead if they know. Psychic surgeons are never allowed to graduate.”

Dean wanted to ask why, but he needed to stay focussed on what was important here. There would be time to talk about Jennifer’s problem when he’d taken care of the spirits. “Okay. So this guy sent you into isolation because you…hurt him.”

Colin answered, stroking Jennifer’s hair. “Yes.”

“So you kept quiet about the spirits. Okay. I get it.” Dean looked at Tamara and he was thinking of his father. What would Dad do? Would he protect these kids?

“Did you do anything other than keep quiet?” Dean asked Tamara. “Because if you did, if anything you've done has influenced what’s happening, then I need to know.” If she did, it would change how Dean felt about helping her, too, but he didn’t mention that.

“No,” Tamara shook her head firmly. “No! I would never!”

“Alright,” Dean conceded. “So tell me what I need to know. Can you identify the spirit?”

Tamara looked scared. “You don’t understand. It’s _them_.”

“You told me that before,” Sam said. “We understand it’s more than one spirit.”

“It’s more than that. I don’t know…” Tamara sounded frustrated. She looked at Colin. They were both silent, communicating without words.

Finally Colin turned to Dean. “Tamara believes that the spirits aren’t separate any longer. They've become something else. A gestalt.”

“A what?” Dean didn’t recognise the word, which made him think they were probably wrong. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the supernatural.

“Gestalt,” Sam repeated. “It’s a psychological term. It means the merged spirits are more powerful as a whole than they would be as separate entities.”

“I've heard of that!” Jo jumped in. She looked worried. “From my Dad’s journal,” Jo added. “He said…” she broke off, frowning, struggling to remember. “It was in Arizona. He found a story about an old Indian curse, but it turned out to be spirits. They had formed a single entity which took the form of different animals or a man. Dad said they had to burn them all to lay it.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Dean said. Jo nodded: she understood. The cemetery was huge: it would take a long time to salt and burn every body there, and they both knew that once spirits got wise to what you were doing, you had to do it fast.

“Is that how it is, Tamara?” Dean asked.

“Yes.” She nodded, relieved. “I think that’s it.”

Dean thought it over. He’d already known this was a mess, now he knew how big a mess. Dad taught him that the only absolutely sure way to kill a vengeful spirit was to salt and burn the remains. But there were other ways: more complicated and less reliable, but ways.

“We can’t do anything tonight,” he announced. He needed more information, and he needed time to think. “Jo, our plan for the night hasn’t changed. I need you to make sure everyone’s safe in the dining hall. Stay with them. Armed, if any of the guns survived.”

“I have some guns,” Jo confirmed.

“Good to know something went right. Sam, I need to talk to the director. What’s his name? Gilbert?”

“Gilbert, yes. He wants to talk to you, too.”

That was convenient. “Sam, I need you to make sure this room is protected, too. With salt. Then I’ll talk to him.” Dean leaned his head back onto the pillows. He was so goddamned tired – probably because of the drugs – but there was more to do before he could sleep.

***

Director Gilbert carried a chair across the room so he could sit near the bed.

Sam carefully lowered Dean’s backrest so Dean was lying not quite flat on the bed. “The salt ring is all around the room,” he said quietly before he reached for a chair.

“Thanks, Sam,” Dean said. “But we need to talk alone.”

Sam looked surprised, but he didn’t argue. “Uh…okay. I’ll be outside.”

“No listenin'!”

Sam nodded, clearly not happy. He folded a chair and carried it out of the room.

Gilbert watched Sam go. “You’re his brother, aren’t you?”

Dean couldn’t decide if he should answer that. The Psi Project went to a lot of trouble to separate Sam from his family. Sam wasn’t a kid any longer, and he was no longer under the Project’s control, but still…Dean hesitated.

“I didn’t remember at first that Sam changed his name. I checked the files after he contacted you. Sam’s original family name was Winchester.”

Dean knew his silence was as good as confirmation, but still, he kept quiet.

“How long have you been in contact?” Gilbert asked.

“If Sam wanted you to know,” Dean answered, “he’d have told you.” They'd been in contact for just over a year, but if Gilbert wanted to think it was much longer, let him think so.

Gilbert nodded, understanding. “Sam came into the Project in '95. At that time, we'd only had a few children with…his background. Almost all of them had suffered serious abuse because of their psychic abilities. One boy was murdered three days after he left the Project, by his own father.”

“Our Dad would _never_ – ” Dean began hotly.

“That may be so,” Gilbert interrupted, “but our policy was based on experience. We thought it best for Sam.”

_Dean moved up to Sam’s side, standing close but not touching him as he gazed, unseeing, out of the cabin window. What happened to Rachel was terrible and Dean knew he could never understand what Sam, her father, had gone through. Sam’s story explained why Rachel’s spirit haunted the bridge, but it didn’t explain the other spirit he’d seen. That had been a man, not a child. Dean had only seen it for a second but he remembered a strange tattoo. _

_Dean needed to know more. Speaking as gently as he could, Dean asked, “You said Rachel showed you a woman in flames. Sam, what does that mean to you? Other than mom, I mean.”_

_Sam leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the glass. “It’s the Anima Sola,” he said._

_“Anima Sola?”_

_“It’s a religious image, popular in South America. A woman chained in purgatory, praying as she burns. Ryan, the man who murdered Rachel; he had the Anima Sola tattooed across his chest.”_

_That made the pieces of the jigsaw fall into place for the first time. Dean felt sick with the horror of it. What that poor child must have suffered. That image - a woman burning - the last thing she saw. Her restless spirit was obsessed with the image, it became a part of her. And she was still waiting for her daddy to come and save her._

_The man who killed Rachel wore an Anima Sola tattoo. Dean had seen his face in the news clipping John left for him. But he’d seen the tattoo somewhere else, too. In the asylum: Rachel’s ghost led him to the other spirit…_

_But that meant…_

_Oh, god. Oh, no, Sam…_

_“Sam, what did you do?” Dean asked apprehensively._

_Sam didn’t move. “I buried my daughter.”_

_Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder and spun him around, slamming him up against the wall beside the window. “You know that ain’t what I mean. Ryan was caught but he never saw a trial. The article said he killed himself. _What did you do_, Sam?”_

_“Alright! Let me go.”_

_Dean stepped back, releasing Sam._

_Sam raised a hand to his forehead, let it fall. “You know that story about the man who dreams he’s about to be executed? He’s marched up to the guillotine and just as the blade falls in his dream someone touches the back of his neck to wake him up and he dies of fright.”_

_“I’ve heard that one, yeah.” It was a dumb urban legend. If the guy died, how could anyone know what he’d been dreaming?_

_“It’s bullshit,” Sam said. “You can’t kill a person with a dream. But you can drive them to it.” Sam met Dean’s eyes and his look was fierce. “I put him through everything he’d done to my baby. I yanked his worst fears out of his head and made him watch. In the end, I figured out how to keep it going when he was technically awake. He clawed his own eyes out and when that didn’t help he smashed his head against the wall until he died.”_

Dean understood. Had Sam not been his brother, Dean might have killed him that day in Willow Creek. What Sam had done created a spirit who tortured and killed six people…seven, if Dean included his father, though technically, Ryan’s spirit didn’t kill John.

He couldn’t really argue with Gilbert’s point, so he dropped the subject and moved on to the most immediate issue. “I know what’s haunting this place. What I’m not sure of, yet, is how to stop it. For that, I need to know some things.”

Gilbert settled back in his chair. “Ask.”

“First, how do you decide who lives and who dies?”

“You mean the children?”

_Who the fuck else?_ “Yeah.”

“That’s a complex issue. The Psi Project was established with certain rules…”

Dean interrupted. “Dude, I ain’t got all night.”

Gilbert smiled faintly. “I’ll try to simplify it. The core mission of the Project is to ensure all of our graduates are a benefit to society, not a threat to it. Each psychic child is classified according to their primary ability.”

“Primary?”

“Most psychics have only one ability. The most powerful usually have several.”

Right. Dean had known that. Sam was a dreamwalker but he also had that vision thing and he could slam Dean up against a wall without even touching him. Though he’d claimed that was involuntary.

Gilbert went on, “There’s a list of psychic powers called the Red List. Any child whose primary power is on that list is automatically deathlisted.”

“What’s on the list?”

Gilbert shook his head. “I won’t tell you the specifics. It’s a short list. Most are powers that can only be used to kill.”

_Like psychic surgery?_ Dean wondered. It sounded like this Red List was top secret, but it was likely the kids knew it existed, even if they didn’t know the details. It was clear that Jennifer thought her ability would get her killed. But was she right? Jennifer’s certainly wasn’t a deadly power. Although…it could be. He thought about what she claimed she’d done to Bishop. If that were true, Jennifer could have stopped Bishop’s heart or closed up his windpipe without leaving any trace of foul play. But she hadn’t. She’d chosen to stop him from raping anyone else.

“Are you serious? Even a little kid? I thought the Psi Project was supposed to teach them control.”

“We do. But I’m talking about someone who can kill you just by touching you. Or even looking at you. The youngest have no control and trying to teach them that leaves a trail of bodies.”

Dean nodded, seeing the point. “Okay, but that’s not the full story. Sam can’t kill like that, but I know he almost died here.”

“True. The Red List powers are rare. There are other abilities that can be used to hurt people, but do have other applications. Like pyrokinetics – a powerful pyro is potentially lethal, but properly trained and in control they can use their powers in some very positive ways.”

Dean didn’t need a lecture on the dangers of pyrokinetics. A rogue pyro killed his mother. Dean still had the scars from when he and his father finally caught up with the son of a bitch.

“Those children we watch carefully, and yes, we do teach them control. To use the same example, a pyrokinetic might never be able to light a flame larger than a match, or she might be able to incinerate an entire building. But even a match can start a major fire. If a child’s power becomes too dangerous, the child may be moved into isolation – ”

“Which means they're killed.”

“Not always. Often, yes, but isolation is where we assess the child. These decisions are never made lightly and some children, like Sam, do leave isolation alive.”

Some children. Sam thought he was the first. “How many?” Dean asked.

“Eight, including Sam, who was the first.”

Eight. Eight kids got a fair deal out of however many were in that cemetery. Damn. No wonder their spirits were so pissed off.

“Would Tamara ever be in danger?” Dean hadn’t meant to ask the question but as the thought occurred to him it just popped out.

“Of being deathlisted? No, Tamara is a medium. It’s a passive ability.”

Then why had Tamara been targeted? Were the spirits jealous that she got a pass and they didn’t? Passive didn’t mean harmless. What if someone had been killed by these spirits because Tamara kept quiet? Would she be less guilty than Sam was when he murdered Ryan?

Involuntarily, Dean glanced toward the door where he knew Sam was waiting. “When you decide a kid has to die, how do you do it?”

Gilbert followed Dean’s gaze to the door. “Is that – ”

“I need to know,” Dean insisted.

“The isolation rooms are truly isolated, like a sterile environment. We can introduce a gas into the air supply which causes unconsciousness. Technically it induces a coma. Then a poison. It’s painless.”

So it wasn’t a violent death. Dean wondered if a child would realise what was happening. Did they live long enough to be scared? “And then? What happens to the bodies?”

“It depends. In some cases the families claim a child’s body; we have to respect their wishes. The others are buried in our cemetery. You saw it from the monorail.”

“Yeah, I saw it. You said they're buried. In a coffin?”

Gilbert frowned. “Of course. What else?”

Dean stifled a smile. “Dude, you'd be amazed. What’s the coffin made of?”

“Wood. Pine, I think.”

“That’s standard. Is it lined with anything?” Sometimes old coffins were lead-lined. For some reason that seemed to create a stronger spirit.

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

Dean ignored the question. “Do you use any kind of ceremony or religious service?”

Gilbert hesitated. “If a child has a religious faith we try to honour it. But that sort of thing isn’t encouraged here. Most of the children who die are buried without any service.”

“Is the cemetery consecrated ground?”

“I have no idea, but I doubt it. I'd have to check the archives from when the Project was founded.”

“You'd better do that. But is there anywhere here that’s consecrated ground? A chapel, maybe?”

“No. We have visits from pastors, a rabbi and others but they use a classroom. There’s no place set aside only for religious purposes.”

Dean let out a breath. That explained a lot, and it gave them a possible way out of this mess. He would need to talk it over with Jo and probably call some others to make sure it would work, but he had an idea. If he was right, they wouldn’t need to dig up that cemetery.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost midnight.”

“No wonder I’m so tired.”

Gilbert took that as a cue to leave. He stood up. “I should leave you to rest. If that’s everything you needed to know?”

Dean nodded. “Just one more thing. If I can fix this, can you do exactly what I tell you? No matter how crazy it seems? Because if you can’t, this is only going to happen again. Next year, next century…I don’t know. But it'll come back.”

Gilbert moved his chair back to its place on the other side of the room. “Dean, I don’t want to lie to you. I can’t give you a straight yes without knowing what you'll ask. But I will do anything in my power to stop this from happening again.”

Dean offered the man his good hand. “It’s a deal.”

Gilbert shook his hand firmly. “Before I go, I have a question for you.” He released Dean’s hand and waited for his nod. “You didn’t flinch when I told you about the death list. Why not?”

Dean considered for a moment before he answered honestly, “Psychics killed both of my parents. I’m not sayin' I’m cool with you making mistakes, but I've got no problem with you killing them before they kill us. It’s what I do. Just most of the things I hunt ain’t human.”

Gilbert nodded. “I’ll leave you to sleep.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sam spent the night in the second bed in Dean’s room. He slept with a loaded shotgun at his side. He knew how to use it; since Rachel’s kidnap he had kept guns at home and made sure he knew how to use them, though he’d never actually fired a gun outside of the shooting range.

When Sam insisted on sleeping in the room with Dean, Dean told Sam pointedly to stay out of his head. Because Dean was exhausted, Sam didn’t explain that he couldn’t “stay out”, not if they slept in the same room. He couldn’t _not_ dreamwalk and Dean’s would be the first mind he encountered. But Sam didn’t have to go deeply into Dean’s mind and he didn’t have to stay there. He wasn’t willing to risk Dean kicking him out - with Jo spending the night with the children, and Dean helpless in his hospital bed, Sam was the only protection Dean had. So he simply lied, telling himself it was for a greater good.

Sam lay awake until he was sure Dean was sleeping peacefully. He remembered Dean staying at his side through half a dozen childhood illnesses. It was always Dean who brought him ice cream when his throat hurt too much for real food, Dean who laid a wet cloth on his feverish forehead, Dean who cleaned up the mess when Sam threw up all over his own bed. The least Sam could do was watch over Dean now.

Sam slept, touching Dean’s sleeping mind only briefly. He caught the edge of Dean’s dream - a glimpse of Jo, the scent of her hair - and he shied away. That was private, and personal. Sam reached out to Jo and found her awake. He touched each of the kids he knew, checking that they were all okay. Colin and Jennifer were together, not sleeping. Colin felt Sam’s mind-touch and didn’t shield, this time. «_We’re fine,_» he sent, and Sam moved on.

He reached out to Jessica. They shared dreams often and touching her mind was familiar and comfortable to Sam. Usually, he created an outdoor setting for them to share: the river near their home and the beach in Bali where they spent their honeymoon were favourites. Tonight, though, Sam wanted to be at home. He built an image of their bedroom, placing Jessica on the bed. She was wearing soft grey pants and a midriff top, with her blonde hair in tousled curls around her face. Sam lay beside her, dressed in similar, comfortable clothing. He reached out to trace the slight ridge of the appendectomy scar on Jessica’s stomach.

Jess smiled. “This is new.” She rolled over and snuggled against his side. She understood that he needed comfort tonight.

“It’s been a long day,” Sam explained. He brushed her curls back from her face, lifted a lock of hair to his mouth and kissed it.

Jessica lifted her head and kissed his lips, but when she drew back her expression was questioning.

Sam knew she wouldn’t let him pretend. Jessica was a good therapist, and she couldn’t help thinking like one. She knew he was troubled and expected him to talk about it. “Dean got hurt today,” he confessed. “Badly hurt.”

“Your brother? He’s with you at the Project?”

He had forgotten she didn’t know. Sam nodded, wrapping his arms around her. He wanted to feel her close to him. “The Project’s problem is more in his area of expertise than mine. They let me call him in, but…” In his mind, Sam saw Dean fall again and heard himself shout Dean’s name as he ran across the grass, unable to catch him.

Because it was a dream, Jess saw it, too. “My God. Is he…?”

“He’s got a lot of broken bones, but he’ll be okay.” Sam sighed.

Jess sat up, moving away from his touch. “I know that sigh. What’s on your mind, Sam? Is it the Project?”

Damn. Sam nodded reluctantly. “There’s a girl here, Jennifer. She’s been deathlisted.”

Jessica nodded, understanding. “And she’s…special to you?”

Sam looked at his wife. There was just a little bite in the way she said _special_, as if she were jealous. Why would Jess be jealous of a kid? “She saved Dean’s life,” he explained. I want to help her, but…Jess, I’ve been going over and over it in my mind and I don’t think I can.”

Jess looked very serious. She brushed back her hair with one hand; an habitual gesture. “Are you sure you should interfere?”

“No. But I _am_ sure Jennifer doesn’t deserve to die.”

“Why was she deathlisted?”

“Someone tried to rape her. She used her psychic ability to defend herself.”

“But that’s self defence! Why would they kill her for that?”

“Self defence is irrelevant,” Sam explained. “The Psi Project rules have no room for motive. It only matters _what_ and _how_.”

Jess frowned. “Okay, but…let me see if I understand. You were deathlisted when you were fifteen, but you hadn’t done anything.”

“That’s true.”

“So…?” Jess prompted when Sam didn’t elaborate.

“When I was a student here it wasn’t about what you did, only what you could do. I didn’t kill that girl, I didn’t even know her, but they were right when they said someone with my ability could have done it. She was depressed already and her nightmares pushed her over the edge to suicidal. That was enough.”

“But that’s changed?”

“Partly because of me - my case - they can judge cases based on character now instead of solely on psychic ability. The question hasn’t changed: it’s still _Is this person capable of killing?_ They’ve just expanded the definition of _capable_.”

“And you believe this Jennifer isn’t dangerous. So, are you saying you don’t trust the people making that decision?”

Of course Sam didn’t trust them! He knew how the Psi Project leaders thought. They would rather execute an innocent than risk the Project graduating someone who later became a danger.

“No, I don’t. But that’s not it. The problem is Jenn did what she did. Even if they judge her on character, they’ll interpret that as evidence that she could do worse.”

“But you don’t agree?”

“Well, let me ask you, Jess. If some man tried to rape you, and you were capable of killing, don’t you think you would?”

Jessica took too long to think it over. “Sam, it’s not a simple question,” she answered eventually. She had her psychiatrist-face on. “In that situation, I think most people would panic,” Jessica agreed. “Panic is a survival trait. We do something that seems irrational and, sometimes, it works. So, I agree, a person might kill in panic. That’s one of the reasons we accept self-defence as a mitigating factor. But to have that capability and _not_ use it…Sam, that doesn’t sound like panic. It sounds like planning.”

She was right! What Jennifer did to Wesley couldn’t have been a spur of the moment thing. She had to have thought about how to do it. Maybe that made sense: Jenn had said she wasn’t the first girl Wesley abused. There was more to her story, Sam realised. He needed to know exactly what happened between them that night.

Sam reached up to cup Jess’s cheek in his big hand. “Thank you,” he said softly. Jess smiled and he pulled her down into a kiss. Sam parted her lips, exploring with his tongue as he ran his hands down her back. He traced the line of her spine with his fingers and slipped his hands beneath the waistband of her pants to squeeze her buttocks gently.

Jess laughed into the kiss.

“I have to go, baby. I think I have work to do.”

“Of course you do.” Jess was disappointed, but not too much. She kissed him again. “I miss you,” she whispered against his lips.

“I miss you, too.” Sam let the dream dissolve around them, leaving Jess to dream her own dreams.

***

### Morning

Sam could hear the noise from the dining hall long before he reached it: the voices of children, talking, shouting and laughing. It was inevitable. Asking so many children to crowd into one room, even such a large one, was bound to result in chaos. As Sam entered the corridor leading to the hall he saw the children crammed into the corridor ahead, and understood the problem. The younger kids were herded outside so others could re-arrange the tables for breakfast. But in the meantime the youngsters were unsupervised.

A girl fell just ahead of him and Sam darted forward, pushing his way through the crowd to help her up. He lifted her to her feet and made sure she was okay.

“Everyone, stop!” he shouted. It took a while, but eventually he had the attention of most of them. “Everybody, listen. I want you to form a line, up against this wall.” He thumped the wall beside him. “Two by two, so there’s space on the other side. Move!”

He waited for the kids to shuffle over to the wall. It wasn’t the most orderly arrangement, but it was better than the crush that had been there before. “Good. That’s right. Now wait quietly. It won’t be long.” He saw Jo watching through the hall door and smiled a greeting, making for her.

“How’s Dean?” Jo demanded at once, without so much as a hello.

Sam didn’t mind. He knew she cared about his brother. “He slept well.” Sam had to shout to be heard over the noise in the room: people moving tables and chairs around. “He wants to see you,” he added, “to talk over what to do.”

“Good. I’ll go now.”

Sam moved into her path. “Wait a moment. How did things go last night?”

Jo looked up at him impatiently. “There was no trouble from the spirits. It’s the first time on a hunt that everyone has done what we said, so no one was outside the protection. A lot of the kids couldn’t sleep, but I think that’s the whole thing making them scared. Dragging everyone in here was a crazy idea, even if it was mine.” She hefted her gun. “We’d better take care of this today. I’m a lousy babysitter.”

Ah. She was impatient because she wanted to escape. Fair enough. “Dean thinks we can end it. Can you tell me about Jennifer and Tamara?”

“Jenn seems fine. Tamara had a bad night, but she’s fine this morning. They’re over there.” Jo indicated a direction with a jerk of her head.

Sam frowned as he followed her gaze. He’d checked on Tamara several times during his dreamwalking overnight, and hadn’t found her in nightmares. “A bad night?” he asked.

“You’ll have to ask her. She was talking in her sleep. Kept waking up. I don’t know.”

“I’ll ask her. Thanks.” Sam stood aside so Jo could leave. “Hey, Jo?”

She looked back.

“Better take Dean some breakfast. It might be the only chance you get to eat this morning.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not his wife, you know. I’ll take him a tray if I can find one, but I’m damned if I’ll feed him.”

Sam grinned. “Outside the hall, turn left. The first blue door leads into the kitchens. If you tell them it’s for the infirmary they’ll give you first pick.”

Jo returned his grin. “Cool. Thanks!” She headed out of the hall. Sam smiled to himself. He could see why Dean liked her.

Tamara was with Colin and Jennifer on the other side of the hall. They were, like everyone else, arranging tables for breakfast. Amazingly, Colin and Jennifer weren’t trying to hold hands while they worked. Sam crossed the room toward them, wondering if Tamara felt like a third wheel. The three of them seemed to be a tight-knit group, but three was often a crowd when two of the three were a couple.

“Sam!”

Sam turned to find Andy Gilbert coming toward him. He waited, knowing Andy would want an update. Sam needed to talk to him, too, about Jennifer and Wesley Bishop. But this wasn’t the place for that: it had to be a private conversation. He let Andy make the usual small talk (good morning - sleep well? - fine, you?) before Andy asked after Dean.

“He’s doing okay.” Sam lowered his voice as much as he could with all the noise around them. “Dean says we need to consecrate the cemetery; that should end what’s been happening here. He and Jo are going over how it’s done.” He started walking toward the three teenagers as he talked.

“Don’t you need a priest for that?” Andy asked.

“I don’t know. If we do, we’ll find one today. They’ll get it done.” Sam saw Jennifer look up. She stiffened as she saw them coming. She straightened the chair she had been placing and waited, her hands resting on the chair back.

“Good morning, Director,” Jennifer said, looking down at her hands.

Sam remembered being just as intimidated by Andy, many years before. He’d never shown it the way Jennifer did, though. She should be bolder if she hoped to win her freedom. But, of course, she didn’t have that hope. She thought this was just a short reprieve.

“Hello, Jennifer. How did you sleep?”

“Well enough,” she answered, in a voice that implied she hadn’t slept at all. “Director, I wanted to ask…what should I do today? Ms Ellis said everyone is to go to class as normal, but…” she spread her hands, indicating a dilemma.

“Hm.” Andy regarded her for a moment. “I certainly can’t send you back to your mentor group…”

Sam interrupted, afraid Andy would order her back into isolation. “She could stay with Dean. He’ll be glad of the company and, well, Jenn can learn a lot from him, if she wants to. It’s not the same as going to class, but it’s something.”

“You trust her with your brother?” Andy asked.

Sam hesitated. He hadn’t told Andy Dean was his brother. “I trust her,” he answered simply. To Andy, he added, “We must talk about her case, but not here. There are some things I don’t think you know.”

Andy nodded. “My office is open to you, Sam. Whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you.”

“Jennifer, I’m trusting you to stay in the infirmary. If you leave there without good reason you’ll go right back to isolation.”

Jennifer looked down again. “I understand, Director.”

Sam waited until Andy was out of earshot then pulled out a chair for Jennifer. “You should stand up for yourself with him. He respects strength.”

She shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

Sam drew a breath to answer her but Tamara interrupted him by grabbing his arm. “He is your brother? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sam frowned, not understanding why it mattered. “I didn’t tell anyone here. Dean must have told the Director.”

Tamara looked exasperated. “You and Dean have the same father?”

“Yes, and the same mother.” Sam was about to add that they were both dead when Tamara said it for him.

“And he’s dead, right? Was his name John?”

Sam stared at her. “Tamara, what are you talking about?”

She told him.

***

The coffee was barely lukewarm and Dean finished it in one long swallow. He rarely ate so slowly as he had that morning, but the pain medication didn’t seem to be working any more and he had only one good hand to eat with. It slowed him down. He set the cup on the wheeled table next to his empty plate and pushed it away. It rolled a short distance from the bed and then stopped.

Jo’s eyes followed the movement, but she wasn’t watching Dean. She was still on the phone to her preacher friend.

Dean was frustrated by his helplessness. He couldn’t even piss without someone holding a bottle for him, but what really bothered him was the thought of Jo finishing this hunt without his help. It wasn’t as if she _needed_ help: Jo had been hunting evil on her own for years before he showed up. The ritual to consecrate the cemetery ground wasn’t dangerous. It shouldn’t be like an exorcism, where you had to worry about the demon getting loose while you worked. It was just a matter of saying the right words…or so he hoped.

Consecrating the burial ground was the only way Dean could think of to lay so many spirits without digging up all three hundred bodies. A spirit was nearly always tied to the remains of its human body. A person buried in consecrated ground could still become a ghost – that happened all the time – but most spirits couldn’t cross consecrated ground. Dean didn’t need to understand how it worked; he only needed to know that it _would_.

“That sounds great, Marty,” Jo said brightly. “Send it to my phone, okay?” She glanced across to Dean. “I will. Thanks.” She ended the call and pocketed her phone.

“Good news?” Dean asked.

“Marty’s got a consecration ritual. We need consecrated oil as well as holy water, but that’s okay. I’ve got both. We’re good.”

“Think you can do it on your own?”

“Yes, but – ” Jo broke off as the door opened.

It was Sam with Jennifer and Tamara. “Dean, I think you should talk to Tamara.”

The phone in Jo’s pocket bleeped and she glanced at it. “That was fast. Sam, I could use your help with this, if you’re free.”

He hesitated. “Sure, but – ”

“It’s okay, Sam,” Dean said. “Go with her.”

Sam seemed reluctant, but he nodded. “Alright.” He looked at Tamara. “Tell Dean what you told me, but if he says no, I want you to drop it, okay? Don’t push.”

She nodded.

“Dean, I told Director Gilbert that Jenn could stay with you today. I hope that’s alright. He would have sent her back to isolation otherwise.”

“It’s fine,” Dean agreed.

Jo kissed Dean lightly. “Don’t go away,” she whispered against his lips.

“Very funny,” Dean growled. “Hey. Forward that ritual to me, would you? It’ll give me something to read.”

“Sure. C’mon, Sam.”

***

Jo punched buttons on her phone, forwarding the ritual to Dean while Sam walked beside her.

“Sam, what’s your number? You should have a copy of this, too.”

Sam told her, and waited for her to finish. He heard his phone beep an alert. “What do you want me to do?” he asked her.

“Keep that ass Gilbert off my back for starters.”

“Andy’s not that bad,” Sam answered reflexively. Then he considered what she said. Andy would want to be kept informed about what they were doing. “I can run interference,” he offered, “so you won’t have to deal with him, but that might be the best I can do.”

“If he’d let us bring Dean’s car in, Dean wouldn’t have been hurt,” Jo said coldly.

She was right. Her reference to Dean made Sam glance back over his shoulder to the closed infirmary door. “Jo…” he began, unsure how to ask his question, “while Dean recovers…will he be okay?”

Jo shook her head. “He'll be a pain in the ass. Dean’s like most men: he can’t handle being sick.”

“I meant…well, I don’t even know where he’s been living. He’s going to need someone to take care of him, and he can’t come to my home. He’s still wanted for murder in Washington.”

“Oh. My mom runs a saloon in Nebraska. Dean’s been living with us.”

A saloon didn’t sound like the best place for Dean to convalesce, though Sam had nothing better to offer. “He’s going to need medical care, Jo…”

“We look after our own,” Jo snapped. It was a dismissal, and clearly excluded Sam from the category of _our own_.

That bothered Sam more than it should have. He wasn’t part of their world and he’d never met Jo before she came here. He was still searching for a suitable answer when Jo turned to him.

“Tell me something. If these spirits are looking for revenge against the Project, why haven’t they attacked Gilbert? Or the other people who run this place?”

It was a good question and Sam didn’t have a good answer. “Dean told me that spirits don’t see things the way people do. You can’t predict who they'll blame for…whatever.”

Jo nodded. “It’s weird, though, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sam agreed. “I can guess why Andy hasn’t been targeted, but it’s just a guess.” They reached the end of the corridor and Sam opened the door for Jo.

Jo gave him a look that said clearly it was a _faux pas_. “I’ll take a guess.”

“The students here know Andy Gilbert by sight, because he’s the director, but that’s it. Most of them will have a conversation with him just once: the day they turn eighteen. Kids who have died here…”

“Probably never met him,” Jo concluded for him.

“There’s that, and…Jo, I’m not sure how to explain it. There’s a bond, psychic to psychic. And Gilbert isn’t a psychic.”

“What kind of bond?”

“Recognition. Imagine walking down a crowded street, but seeing everything in black-and-white, like an old movie. Then imagine that just one or two people on that street appear in colour.”

“You'd be drawn to them,” Jo nodded, understanding.

“Yes. And if you’re a spirit, not a person, maybe the other people wouldn’t be quite…real.”

“That’s creepy.” Jo shuddered. “How can you live like that?”

Sam smiled. He wanted to ask how she could live without it. “The short answer is, I don’t. The longer one is I've never known what it’s like to be any different. If I didn’t have that psychic sense I'd feel…blind. Or like I was missing a limb.”

“It’s still creepy.” Jo shrugged. “I guess with the monorail down I’ll have to walk to Dean’s car.”

“That’s probably quicker than asking for a cart.” When Sam had been a student, there had been a number of electric carts that could be used to get around the compound instead of using the monorail. They were used mostly by mentors transporting very young children. But Sam hadn’t seen a cart since he arrived back at the Project and getting the use of one would mean going through Andy, which Jo seemed to want to avoid.

“Then that’s where I’m going,” Jo announced. “Sam, how’s your Latin?”

Sam hesitated. He remembered his father making him memorise Latin rituals, going over the words and pronunciations over and over. But that was a long time ago. “I can read it and understand a little. I don’t think I can translate.”

“Can you pronounce it?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Dad drilled that into me, and there’s a lot of Latin in medical training.”

“Then I want you to study that ritual. It’s okay if you don’t understand the words, but you've got to be able to read it.”

“Aren’t you going to…?”

“Yes. You’re my backup. It should be Dean, but you'll do.”

_Gee, thanks_, Sam thought, but didn’t say it.

It must have shown on his face, though, because Jo gave him an impatient look. “Listen, I can do the ritual. But some of these rites are thousands of years old and they're…pretty sexist. You understand me? It'll only work for a man.”

“And this one is like that?” Sam thought he understood her irritation.

“Don’t know until we try it,” Jo answered.

***

Jennifer gathered up Jo’s breakfast things, helping herself to a slice of toast Jo had left. She added Jo’s plate to Dean’s on the wheeled table, and pushed the table out of their way.

Tamara took the chair Jo had vacated at Dean’s bedside. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that,” he instructed.

“Do what?”

“Make conversation. I feel like I fell thirty feet from a monorail. Which is what happened. Sam said you wanted to tell me something. So spill it.”

Tamara’s cheeks reddened under her dark skin. “Well…you know I’m a medium.”

“Yeah.”

“Last night I had a spirit pestering me. It happens sometimes. I…”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted. Weren’t you sleeping in the dining hall with everyone else?”

“Of course.”

“Then how could you have a spirit around you? You were supposed to be protected in there.” Dean looked at Jennifer, who was bringing another chair so she could join them. She nodded silently, confirming, Dean hoped, that they had indeed been in a salt circle.

“It wasn’t a ghost,” Tamara protested. “This is…” she hesitated, biting her lip. “I’ve noticed that you say _spirit_ when you mean _ghost_,” she volunteered finally.

“That’s because a ghost is a type of spirit. Like a lion is a type of cat. Do you understand?”

Tamara frowned. “Then maybe I need a new word for what talks to me. I _can_ see ghosts, but what I call spirits, the things that talk to me, aren’t ghosts. They’re just dead people.”

Dean wasn’t sure she was right about that, but it wasn’t his problem. He nodded. “Okay. So, last night…?”

“It’s not like talking to a person. Sometimes it’s just pictures or words that don’t quite fit together. Sometimes only feelings. But last night I kept getting the same thing. His sons were in trouble and he wanted me to warn them.”

Dean held his breath, not daring to let the thought form in his mind. Not daring to hope.

“I don’t know any brothers here, so I told him I couldn’t help. But he was very…persistent. He wouldn’t go away. And this morning I overheard Sam talking with Director Gilbert. He said you were his brother. So I think maybe…”

“It was my dad?” Dean breathed.

“I think so.”

Dean stared at her. “Well, what did he say?” he demanded urgently.

Tamara looked uncertain. “I’m not sure. I was trying to make him go away. But…I can try to make contact again. Now. If you like.”

***

"So…er…how does this work, exactly?" Dean felt self conscious, holding Tamara’s hand in his. On the other side of the bed, Jennifer rested one of her hands on the fingers of Dean’s broken arm and reached across his body to hold Tamara’s other hand.

"The first stage is a bit like tuning a radio. I have to make a connection to your father’s spirit. I’ll tell you what I see or hear, and you need to let me know whether you think it’s right. When I’m sure of the connection you'll be able to communicate with him."

"Am I supposed to close my eyes or somethin'?"

Tamara smiled. "Only if you want to." She closed her own eyes and squeezed his hand. "John," she said aloud. "John, I’m listening now. Do you want to speak to your son?"

Dean watched her as she spoke. Tamara’s eyes were closed, her young face very serious. Dean knew she had nothing to gain by conning him and it was certainly no joke to her. Still, he found it hard to believe that she could really do what she claimed. Or perhaps he was hoping she couldn’t…he wasn’t sure his Dad would be happy with him. Dean had killed him, after all. Though Dean would never have more than brief flashes of memory from that night, he knew it hadn’t been a quick or clean kill. He used a machete, and John fought him. Hard.

"I see…a car," Tamara said softly. "It’s old…I smell gasoline. The car is black, very big…"

"It sounds like my car. She was my Dad’s car first. He gave her to me for my eighteenth birthday."

Tamara smiled faintly. "There’s a gun on the seat. I…I don’t know much about guns, but this one is special. I don’t know why."

Dean was silent. His Dad owned a lot of guns, but so did he. _Gun_ on its own meant nothing. A special gun? Nothing came immediately to mind, although there had been guns that had particular meaning.

“Oh!” Tamara exclaimed. “It’s not his. There’s a boy. A little boy with a gun across his lap.” Tamara frowned as if she found the image disturbing. “The man is laying his hand across the boy’s. He’s saying something. I can’t hear the words, but there’s a name. Maria? No, Mary.”

Dean closed his eyes. “That’s my mother’s name.” He could see the scene Tamara described so vividly: the Impala, the weight of a sawed-off shotgun across his lap, Dad’s voice… Dean couldn’t remember a specific incident that matched Tamara’s description, but it sounded very familiar.

“It’s coming through so clearly,” Tamara said. “His spirit is strong.” She sighed, her fingers relaxing in Dean’s hold. “John,” she said, her voice suddenly soft, “I feel you now. Will you speak to Dean?”

Dean held his breath.

***

The chain clinked as Sam unlocked the cemetery gate and pulled the chain through the railings. He didn’t go in, just looked through the gate for a moment.

And then he looked with more than his eyes.

Sam’s sixth sense wasn’t confined to his dreams, it was just there that he was most comfortable, and most powerful. As he had tried to explain to Jo, it was easy for him to slip into an altered state of consciousness from which he could perceive the world in a very different way. Most psychics could do it to some extent, and most didn’t do it often, because the switch in perception could be confusing, even frightening. Sam suspected it was the reason so many untrained psychics ended up in padded cells: if a person couldn’t control that psychic vision or didn’t understand what they were seeing, it must make the world a terrifying place.

But it could also be useful. At first, Sam couldn’t tell what he was seeing. Inside the cemetery, filling the air, he saw a swirling mass of colour and darkness. Vague shapes swept out of the confusion and were swallowed again, too quickly for him to recognise anything. There was smoke, and sparks rising as if from a bonfire. Then suddenly the ever-shifting cloud seemed to coalesce into something Sam almost identified. And it was gone.

The rough, flaking iron of the gate dug into Sam’s palm and Sam realised he was gripping the bar tightly. His mouth was dry with fear. What was in there was huge. It was powerful. _And it was growing_. He had no doubt about that last. The centre was dark, a great vortex drawing in more and more…what? Power? Evil?

Sam leaned closer, his face not quite touching the bars of the gate, hoping to see more clearly. He caught a glimpse of a face, of long, dark hair and caught his breath. Without thinking, he started to push the gate open.

A hand grasped Sam’s wrist.

“Sam, what are you doing?” Jo demanded.

When Sam turned to her, he saw her with his psychic vision, her hair and eyes aglow with life. He closed his eyes, concentrating to “switch off” that second sight. When he opened them again he just saw Jo, gazing at him with concern.

But Jo had been heading out to the parking lot when he last saw her. Why was she here now? Then he saw the sleek black car parked on the grass a short distance away. God, how many memories did he have of that car?

But if Jo had been out to the parking lot and was back now, how long had Sam been standing here at the gate? He’d lost time standing here. Maybe a lot of time. The realisation sent a chill down his spine.

“Sam!” Jo said sharply.

Sam shook his head. “Sorry, I…” he muttered. He took a deep breath, centring himself the way he did before a dreamwalk.

“Dude, what are you smokin'?”

Sam answered, “Psychic energy. There’s a lot of it in there.” His voice was steady.

“Well, duh,” Jo told him impatiently.

He’d pissed her off again. Sam wished Dean were with them. Dean at least understood a little about Sam’s power. He tried to explain. “When I arrived at the Project a few days ago, I came here to…to pay my respects. There was something in the cemetery then…” - that spark of heat he felt at Nedah’s grave - “but nothing like what I can feel there now. Maybe I’m more sensitive now I know what’s here, but…”

“…But maybe it really is stronger,” Jo finished.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what you see.”

Sam thought about it. How do you explain a symphony to someone who is deaf? He frowned. “Have you ever seen Kirlian photography? Auras?”

Jo nodded. “Sure. In books.”

“If I try, I can see something like that. It’s a…a sense of life, or energy. It’s not clairvoyance, like Tamara. It’s…different. Seeing the world that way can be damned confusing, so mostly I don’t try. What I can see through the gate is a little like that, but life is always attached to something. A person. A plant. Something. What’s in there isn’t physical, but it’s powerful…energy? I don’t know.”

“Ether,” Jo suggested. “You see changes in the Ether.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m a psychic, Jo, but I’m also a doctor. A scientist. Ether is a Victorian invention.”

“It’s ancient Greek,” Jo disagreed, “and it’s just a word for a plane of existence that science hasn’t figured out yet. Call it whatever you like, Sam. You’re the psychic.” She looked through the gate, her expression wary, but Sam knew she wouldn’t be able to see what he had seen. “We need to get this done, Sam. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Sam answered, although his experience at the gate had shaken him badly.

Jo opened her pack and extracted a small, clear bottle. “This is consecrated oil,” she explained. “It’s all I have, so be careful. Mark a cross on both of your hands and your forehead. It’s…protection. A kind of blessing.”

Sam took the bottle from her and spilled a little of the oil onto his fingers.

Jo moved toward the gate. “This is iron, isn’t it?” she asked, running one hand down the bars.”

“I think so,” Sam agreed as he followed her instructions, marking his skin with the oil. Protection. Would it work against all that power?

“It’s a pity it doesn’t go all the way around.” She knelt in the grass and started to pull plastic bottles out of her bag, stacking them in a row beside the gate. “We need to lay down a circle of holy water around the space we're going to consecrate. I'd planned on going around the inside of the hedge, but maybe it'll be safer if we go around the outside.”

She seemed to be asking him, so Sam nodded agreement. “That sounds like a good idea. The hedges are a complete perimeter around the cemetery.”

Jo handed him a bottle of water and unscrewed another. “Hold it like this.” She demonstrated, holding the bottle pointing downward, with her thumb covering the open neck. She shook it, letting water drip onto the ground. “You want a sprinkle, not a flow, got it?”

Sam nodded.

“It’s not like a salt line. We’re just marking out the space, so it doesn’t have to be a perfect unbroken line, but go slow and try not to miss any spots. If you run out of water, mark the place and come back here for more.”

“Got it,” Sam answered.

Jo added a few more instructions, and they began.

***

For the first time, Sam saw fear in Jo’s eyes. He wondered if she’d ever done this before, but he wouldn’t ask. It only mattered that she could do it _now_. Sam nodded to her, feigning a confidence he didn’t truly feel, and Jo pushed open the gate.

They walked into the cemetery side by side. Sam was braced for…for _something_ to happen, but nothing did. The grass was soft beneath his shoes and a light breeze played with his hair. The cemetery was as quiet as it had been when Sam visited Nedah’s grave.

Everything was still. The breeze rippled through the grass and rustled the leaves of the surrounding hedges.

Jo lifted her voice. “_In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti._”

“_Amen_,” Sam responded.

Everything was still…

…It was waiting.

With the thought, Sam concentrated on raising a psychic shield, protecting his mind. Only when the shield was solid in his mind did he risk opening up his second sight again.

What had been an amorphous cloud of colour and sparks was now dark and roiling. It was…angry. The cloud was circling, forming a shape something like a twister, but slow-moving. Moving toward Jo.

Sam drew a breath to warn her and something shot out from the cloud and closed around him. Abruptly, there was no air. Sam took a step backward and and his foot caught on something. He fell awkwardly, twisting as he tumbled in an attempt to break his fall. He could no longer hear Jo’s voice. He rolled onto his back, looking for Jo. He saw her with his second sight, her light shining through the sudden darkness.

Surely she had noticed him fall? Sam tried to get up, reaching out to her, but Jo remained where she was, half-turned away from him.

Sam tried to fight through his second sight, to see her reality. He fumbled for his phone where his copy of the ritual was stored. If Jo wasn’t able to complete the consecration, _he_ had to. Sam struggled to his feet, feeling as if he were fighting through a tornado, though no wind whipped his clothing or hair.

“Jo!” he called, hoping she would respond, but he could no longer see her. Sam took a step forward, intending to go to Jo, to help her, but then he realised that the best way to help was to do what she’d told him: finish the ritual.

The display on his phone flickered as Sam punched buttons, calling up the text. What was wrong with his phone? He shook it hard – a stupid thing to do, but remarkably it seemed to work. The display steadied.

As the whirlwind of power closed around him once more Sam began to read.


	6. Chapter 6

“Stop it!” Tamara cried, her forehead creased with distress. She gripped Dean’s hand tightly. Her eyes were closed, but not like she was relaxed: they were screwed shut, as if she didn’t want to see something.

“Tammi, it’s okay,” Dean tried to say, but he wasn’t sure that it was. He would have broken the circle – wasn’t that how you were supposed to stop a séance? – but her grip on his fingers was too tight. Dean looked to Jennifer for help, but she was staring at Tamara, fear plain on her face. Jenn didn’t know what to do, either.

Suddenly Tamara’s eyes flew open and she straightened. For a moment, Dean thought she was somehow possessed, but her voice, when it came, was still hers. “Damn it, I’m a _person_!” she shouted. “I’m not a telephone! And you’re dead. Deal with it or piss off!”

Dean let out a bark of laughter. Hoping he was doing the right thing, he raised his voice. “She’s right, Dad. Maybe you can’t tell, but she’s just a kid. She’s tryin' to help and you’re hurting her. Cut it out, or we'll have to stop this.” He felt Tamara’s grip on him ease a little. “Tammi?”

She breathed out a long sigh. “I’m okay. It was just coming too fast, that’s all.” She breathed deeply for a few moments, then met Dean’s eyes. “He says that Bill lied…no, that Bill didn’t tell Jo everything. He says Bill couldn’t admit he fuh- messed up.”

Dean stifled a grin at her little stumble, amused that she felt she needed to clean up John’s language. He concentrated on the serious issue. “Are you saying that consecrating the graveyard won’t work?”

“He says it will, but – ” Tamara broke off. “John, you’re going too fast again.” She looked at Dean. “He’s saying that you have to do something first or the spirits will…I don’t know. Something bad.”

“Alright. Dad, I get it, I know how fast these things can go south. But Tamara isn’t understanding you.”

“Try it as twenty questions,” Tamara suggested. “You ask, Dean, and John can answer with yes, no or maybe. It will take longer but I think it’s the best way.”

Dean nodded. “Alright.”

Tamara was silent for a moment, then she nodded, too. “Good. Thank you. Dean, go ahead.”

Dean decided to begin with what he _did_ know. “We need to consecrate the burial ground. Is that part right?”

“Yes,” Tamara breathed. Dean could hear the relief in her voice. This was working for her.

“So you’re saying that the consecration isn’t enough? There’s some other task or ritual Jo has to do first?”

“Yes.”

“Well…it must be something that will weaken the spirits…” Dean _hated_ twenty questions.

“Uh…” Tamara hesitated. “I think that’s no…and yes.”

“Helpful,” Dean answered sarcastically. “Is it a salt-and-burn?” Dean knew it wasn’t, but figured it wouldn’t hurt to get that option out of the way.

“No.” This time Tamara sounded certain.

“Well, it can’t be a banishing. We _want_ the spirits tied to their bodies.”

“Yes.”

“Yes it’s a banishing?” That didn’t make any sense. When Tamara confirmed that, Dean added, to be sure, “We want the spirits tied to their remains.”

“Yes,” Tamara answered again.

_Okay. Tell me something I don’t know._ “Wait. Is there some ritual to do that?” Dean had never heard of one. You could use a piece of a dead body to summon a spirit, but that wasn’t the same thing.

Tamara answered uncertainly, “He says no, but there’s something…” Her breathing quickened again and suddenly her eyes opened wide. “Dean, he says that if you just do the thing you planned, the joined spirits will fight it. I don’t understand what he’s showing me. It’s like a twister, sucking in everything around it. It’s bad.”

Dean didn’t understand it, either. “But, Dad, you’re not making sense! Spirits are already tied to their remains. That’s why a salt-and-burn works.” You didn’t need any ritual to make sure of that. A thought niggled the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite make it come front-and-centre. What else worked with spirits? It couldn’t be an exorcism, that was just for demons…or could it?

Understanding burst on him. “Dad, we have to lay the spirits first, don’t we? Just like that house cleansing in Oregon!”

“Yes!” Tamara smiled. “You’re on the right track, Dean,” she added.

“I remember we used spirit bags, but what the hell did we put in them? Dad, please tell me it’s in your journal somewhere.”

“Yes.”

Dean lay back, almost letting go of Tamara’s hand. “Thanks, Dad.”

Tamara’s voice was just a whisper. “That’s it. He’s satisfied.”

“Wait, Dad!” Dean tightened his grip on her hand. He wanted to say so much. About what happened in Willow Creek. About love… But as he looked into Tamara’s eyes the words failed him. It was hard enough to talk to Dad face to face. To say those things through a stranger seemed impossible.

Tamara smiled gently. “He says he’s proud of you. He’s glad you found Sammy.” She made a sound that could have been pain. “I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispered. “I have to let it go now.” Slowly, she pulled her hand from his.

***

“Can you help me?” Dean pressed.

Jennifer bit her lip. “I _can_, but…” She met his eyes but didn’t complete the sentence.

Dean thought he understood. “They'll kill you,” he said quietly, so she wouldn’t have to. “It’s okay. I understand.” It had been a long shot anyway.

“They're going to kill me anyway.” Jennifer spoke with weary resignation.

She was only sixteen! No one her age should have to feel that way. Dean was beginning to wish the people who ran the Psi Project were the kind of monsters he could hunt.

Jennifer met his eyes earnestly. “It’s not that, Dean. Please believe me.”

“I do.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m supposed to be a healer,” she told him. “They teach us how to make the best of our powers, but they don’t teach psychic surgery. I learned that myself, testing stuff on my own body. I've never tried to set bone, but I can heal torn flesh. I think bone works the same way, just slower. So I think I can do it.”

It was a long speech, but Dean stayed quiet, letting her get through it.

She bit her lip again. “The thing is, if I try…Dean, it’s gonna _hurt_. You don’t know how much. Yesterday I had Colin and Sam to help keep you under, like a psychic anaesthetic. This will be like real surgery, with you awake.”

Dean swallowed. He’d had a lot of broken bones over the years and he’d been through a lot of pain. Jennifer’s words conveyed very well just how bad this might be. But Dean had to try. Tamara’s words haunted him: _he’s showing me a twister, sucking in everything around it. It’s bad. _Dean had to get to Jo and Sam if he could. A warning wasn’t good enough: he had to go himself, make sure they were both safe.

“Okay,” he decided. “Let’s try it a little at a time. Is there something I can bite on?”

Jennifer smiled weakly. “You’ve done this before.”

“The psychic thing? No. The surgery without anaesthetic – yeah, a couple of times. I can handle pain, Jennifer, if you’re willing.”

Jennifer turned to look around the room. “Tammi, there are some towels in the bathroom. Could you bring me the smallest one?”

Tamara took a few moments to sort through the towels, then came into view carrying a white towel over her arm. She offered it to Jennifer. “Will this do?”

Jennifer took the towel from her. “Too big. We'll need to tear it.”

“I’ll look for some scissors.” Tamara disappeared again. She returned with a scalpel. “I found a surgical tray next door,” she explained unnecessarily.

Jennifer sliced a strip off the towel and twisted it into a tight rope. She bent the improvised rope double, then offered it to Dean, placing it carefully between his teeth.

“I’m going to start with your pelvis, because that’s the cleanest break,” Jennifer said to him. “If it hurts too much, we won’t go any further.”

Dean nodded.

“Okay, then.” Jennifer moved down the bed and reached out to lay her hands gently on his hip.

It turned out she wasn’t kidding about the pain.

***

Jennifer released the harness holding Dean’s arm, lowering the sling so Dean could extract himself from it. There was no cast on the arm, just a stiff brace to keep the bones straight: the Psi Project doctor had assumed Dean would transfer to a regular hospital so hadn’t used a permanent cast that a hospital would probably have removed.

Dean sat up. The movement didn’t hurt. He clenched his fist, then rotated it. Still no pain. Although, after going through the hell of psychic surgery, Dean wasn’t sure he’d notice regular pain. He felt as if he’d screamed his throat raw. All the screaming had been inside his head, though: he hadn’t dared make a sound for fear that would bring “help”. He was soaked in sweat, the infirmary-issue pyjamas clinging to his skin.

“Please tell me my clothes are here.” Dean pulled the wet shirt off over his head.

Jennifer was already searching the closet. He was alone with her: Tamara had volunteered to guard the door (translation: she couldn’t stand to watch) and was, as far as Dean knew, still outside. Jennifer produced a bag that Dean recognised: his own duffel.

“Here,” Jennifer said as she turned around with the duffel in hand, “Oh!” She looked down at once and opened the bag without coming closer.

Dean couldn’t see her face clearly, but he would bet she was blushing. He couldn’t resist a wisecrack. “I'd love to, sweetheart,” he drawled, “but there ain’t time.”

Her head jerked up. “Pig!” She threw a bundle of denim at him.

Dean stripped off the pyjama pants and pulled the jeans on without waiting for underpants. “Sorry, I was just kidding.” He buttoned his jeans, aware of her trying not to watch him. He held out a hand. “Is there a t-shirt in there?”

She looked. “What happened to you?” she asked.

Dean didn’t understand at first. As she handed him the t-shirt, though, he caught sight of the scar on his arm. Then he got it. He turned around, showing off the claw marks on his back. “That was a werewolf,” he told her, “and this…” he indicated a different scar just below his waist, “was a poltergeist.” He turned back, pulling the t-shirt over his head. “The burns are from the pyrokinetic that killed my Mom. And these…” he passed a hand over his cheek, “…are from the last time I ran into the spirit of a psychic. She exploded a mirror right in my face. Ruined my good looks forever.”

“I don’t think you’re…” Jennifer began, then stopped, staring down at the floor. Dean could have sworn she was blushing.

“They’re just scars, kid. The wear and tear goes with the job.”

Jennifer put his duffel down and went back to the closet; to avoid looking at him, apparently. It was kinda sweet.

“Why do you do it?” she asked with her back to him.

“Because I don’t trust anyone else to kill these things.” He picked up the duffel and went on dressing in silence. Finally, he tucked his colt into his belt and closed the duffel.

“Jenn, I won’t forget this. There’s no way I’m going to let them kill you.”

She did turn around to look at him then. “I don’t think you can stop it,” she said quietly.

Dean moved toward her and took her hand in his. “Not every psychic is part of the Project, you know,” he said softly. “You can leave here with me and Jo. I know someone who can get you into Canada and help you get papers for a new identity. Canada isn’t too friendly to psychics, either, but from there you could go to Europe or Asia. With your talent you could do well there.”

Jennifer looked uncertain. “On my own?” she asked.

Dean got it. “Oh. Colin, right?”

She nodded silently.

“I think my friend could take two. Would he go with you?”

“I think he would.”

“Then talk to him.” Dean tapped his forehead. “His way, you understand? And let me know. You'll only have one chance to leave with me.”

“Are you sure this will work?”

“I’m sure. Jenn, you saved my life. Least I can do is return the favour.”

***

“You can’t kill us,” Nedah said sadly.

Sam reached out to touch her face. She was exactly as he remembered her, dressed in her favourite faux-patchwork skirt and a layered, flowing top. Her large brown eyes were partly hidden by the hair which hung loose about her face. That was different – she usually held the front strands of her hair back with a barrette, leaving her face bare. Nedah was fifteen years old forever, because she was dead. But dead or not, her skin felt warm under his hand, and she leaned into his touch with a sigh.

“You can’t kill us,” she repeated.

“No,” Sam answered, “you’re already dead.”

“Because of _them!_” she flared.

Sam took her hands in his. “Nedah, what you are doing is wrong.”

“Talking to you?” She cocked her head to one side quizzically.

“Hurting people. Hurting other psychic children.”

Nedah snatched her hands out of his grip. “_They_ hurt children.”

“Yes, they do. But that doesn’t make it right.”

Sam saw Nedah’s eyes narrow and knew he had offended her. He was sorry for that, but he couldn’t let this continue.

They were standing near Nedah’s grave, pale-grey mist swirling thickly around them so Sam couldn’t see more than a few feet beyond where they stood. He was not even certain they stood in the physical world. He had been reading the consecration rite, struggling a little with the flickering display of his phone, when Nedah came to him. He knew she was a spirit, part of the problem, and he knew she probably meant him harm. Yet Sam couldn’t turn away from her. She was the first person he had ever loved, except Dean and his father. He couldn’t help blaming himself for her death; if he had been there to help her she would never have lost control…

_What were you gonna do, Sam?_ asked a cynical voice in his head. Sam knew that voice was just his own mind, but in his head it sounded like Dean. _Were you gonna spend the rest of your life looking after her? Never have a life of your own?_

_If I had to._ Sam answered that inner voice defiantly, but Dean’s practicality – even through the filter of Sam’s imagination – made him realise the truth for the first time. Nedah had been unable to control her pyrokinesis while she slept. It was because of her nightmares: she would strike out in her dreams and her power responded in reality. It wasn’t her fault, but without Sam the Psi Project would have figured out a lot sooner that Nedah was a danger to herself…and to others. By the Psi Project rules, that was a clear-cut case. Sam was shocked to realise he was beginning to see their point of view. After all, what was the alternative for someone like Nedah? Have her sleep in an asbestos cell every night?

Nedah raised her hands in a kind of push-away gesture and flame exploded into Sam’s face.

Sam cried out, stumbling back to avoid the fireball. He threw up his arms to protect his face, shocked by how much her power had grown. Had she read his thoughts? How could she? Nedah wasn’t telepathic!

She advanced on him, her hands aflame. “We won’t let you stop us,” she declared. Sam could hear something odd in her voice, like an echo or an overlaid sound.

Stupid! So stupid!

This wasn’t Nedah’s spirit. Nedah was part of the gestalt; if what Sam was seeing looked like her, it was because the spirits _could_ read his mind. They could read Sam’s guilt over her death and knew he would respond to  her.

Her pretty face twisted into a snarl, Nedah sent a second blast of flame his way. Sam flung himself down, talking the fall on his side and rolling across the grass.

A loud report of gunfire shattered the silence of the mist surrounding them. Nedah froze mid-gesture and dissolved into the mist. A moment later, the grey mist surrounding Sam and Nedah’s grave seemed to melt away.

“Sammy!” Dean ran toward him, vaulting over a headstone to stop at Sam’s side.

Sam stared. Had he hit his head when he fell? Dean was in the infirmary… But as Dean’s hand grasped his arm firmly, Sam could not doubt his presence. “Dean? How…?”

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Sam looked around them, hardly able to believe how quickly the mist had vanished. “Uh…it was Nedah. One of my friends…from before.”

“A spirit?”

Sam nodded a yes.

Dean gave him an exasperated look. “Holy crap, Sammy! We’re here to stop them, not make friends!” He straightened and offered Sam his hand. Sam reached up, grasping Dean’s wrist as Dean clasped his and hauled him up.

“Is Jo…?” Sam began.

“She’s okay.” Dean glanced around as if looking for her. “Is the spirit still here?”

“No. At least, I can’t see her. Dean…”

Dean interrupted before Sam could ask how he’d come here. “We can talk later. We need to…” He broke off, staring at Sam.

Sam frowned. “What?”

“That spirit you saw. She’s someone you have a connection with?”

“Uh…yeah. We were close as kids.”

“Good. I can use that.”

It took a while for Dean to explain what he wanted from Sam. By the time he was done, Jo had joined them.

“You got it, Sam?” Dean checked.

Sam nodded. “How will I know if…I mean, _when_ it works?”

“You’ll know, psychic-boy. Trust me.” Dean began to walk away, but then he turned back. “This ain’t like Rachel, Sam. You had a blood connection with her.” He offered Sam his shotgun.

Sam took the gun and cracked it open. It wasn’t loaded. Of course it wasn’t, because Dean had fired it at Nedah’s ghost. Dean threw him some ammo, which Sam caught one-handed and loaded the gun. “Nedah’s not my blood, but we had a psychic connection. I’ll be fine, Dean.”

Dean took him at his word.

Sam sat down on the grass beside Nedah’s grave. He laid the shotgun down beside him, within easy reach. He wouldn’t use his psychic vision again: the migraine wasn’t worth it. But he didn’t think he would need it. The spirits used Nedah to approach him; that meant they wanted something from him. It could be they wanted him dead…well, that was why he had the gun.

Dean’s plan to “lay the spirits” involved burying something in a few places around the perimeter of the cemetery. Sam hadn’t paid much attention to the details since Dean assigned him a different job.

He waited for Nedah to appear. It didn’t happen at once, but Sam was patient. He remained where he was, remembering the Nedah he knew. She’d been a quiet girl, but she’d made an effort to be friendly with Sam when he was new to the Psi Project and still desperately missing his family. He would always be grateful for that.

Nedah faded into view beside him. “We did have some good times, didn’t we?” she said.

That was better than throwing fireballs at him. Sam smiled nervously. “We did.”

“You should go, Sam.”

“I can’t. I want to help you.” He meant it. He didn’t want to think about Nedah as a restless spirit, earthbound forever. Sam believed in God and in Heaven. He wanted to think of his friend as in a better place, like his daughter.

But he couldn’t think about Rachel. Not now.

“Help us?” Nedah repeated. “You came to stop us.”

“I came to stop you from hurting the children here, that’s true. But I didn’t know…Nedah…” he hesitated, then plunged in. “Nedah, you know you’re not supposed to be here, don’t you? You, and the others, you’re supposed to move on.”

“To what?”

_To Heaven_, Sam thought, but he wasn’t sure Nedah would accept that.

“The children are part of the Project,” Nedah said. “We didn’t want to hurt them, but we couldn’t touch the weak ones.”

“Weak? You mean psychically weak?” The realisation came with a chill of fear. Sam had _told_ Dean he had a psychic connection with Nedah. He’d told Jo there was a bond between psychics. He hadn’t understood what those things meant. _Of course_ the spirits targeted the children! Many of the mentors here were psychics but few of them were powerful. The children, Tamara, Colin and particularly Jenn, were some of the most powerful psychics Sam had ever met.

As powerful as Sam himself.

Oh…crap.

“I’m one of you,” Sam told her, keeping his voice low and soothing. “The Psi Project tried to kill me, remember?”

Nedah’s expression hardened. “They let you go.” Her voice was almost a snarl.

Sam was not just talking to Nedah now. This wasn’t Dean’s plan. He’d said that since they were dealing with multiple spirits one of them might have to take the lead “crossing over”. He’d suggested Sam might be able to talk Nedah into it, but even if Sam couldn’t, watching her would let them know when it worked.

“They let me _live_,” Sam answered, keeping his voice steady. “The Psi Project never lets anyone go.” Sam heard the resentment in his own voice and knew it was true. He’d run all the way to California, worked harder than he ever had in his life at Stanford, so he would not have to return to the Project when he graduated. Yet here he was, and a part of him would always belong to the Project. “What they did to you was wrong,” Sam said carefully, “but _you_ can’t fix it. None of you can. It’s time to move on.”

“We can’t go until our work is done.” The words came from Nedah’s mouth, but the voice didn’t sound like her at all.

“But you can’t do this work,” Sam pointed out. “You told me you can’t touch the weak ones.”

“We are getting stronger.”

“Yes. You’re hurting the children worse and worse. You brought down the monorail and hurt someone who has nothing to do with the Project. Strength isn’t everything. This work of yours can only be done in this world, by the living.”

Nedah shook her head. She started to say something, but then Sam saw her vanish for an instant, then re-appear. She stared at him, shocked. “What have you done?”

Sam had done nothing; this had to be Dean’s work. Sam answered as honestly as he could. “We're trying to help you. So you can rest properly.”

“No!” she screamed.

Nedah looked so frightened, it took Sam right back to their childhood together. He reached out to her, instinctively trying to reach out with his mind as well as with his hands. He shouldn’t have been able to touch her psychically, because he was awake, but he felt the touch, the internal _click_ that told him he had connected with her mind. Instantly, he realised his mistake and tried to pull back.

The whirlwind he’d felt earlier engulfed Sam’s mind. For a moment, he felt himself falling, falling into endless darkness although he’d been sitting on the ground with nowhere to fall. He heard voices, too many now to pick out one voice among the din, shouts of anger and screams of terror. He knew he was being sucked into the maelstrom, and if he let it happen he would be just like them, a ghost in the graveyard.

Sam tried to shield but he couldn’t concentrate enough to make it work. The bizarre image in his mind was the twister scene in _The Wizard of Oz_, nightmare images appearing out of the tornado and disappearing, while Dorothy peers through the window, her fragile home miles up in the air.

Sam hit the ground without warning, a bone-crushing impact. He lay on his back, the sun bright above him. The whirlwind was gone and in its wake there was only silence, and the pounding pulse of a beginning migraine. Sam raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He was alone.

It was over.


	7. Chapter 7

“That’s a very serious accusation, Sam.” Andy’s hand tightened on the arm of his leather chair as he spoke.

Sam noted the gesture. He knew. The son of a bitch knew…or at least suspected.

“What proof do you have?”

“I have my psychic ability. When Jenn told me her story I didn’t take her word for it. I went into his dreams that night. Not even another psychic can lie to me in a dream and Wes isn’t very powerful.”

“What did you see?” Andy’s tone was carefully non-committal.

“I made him relive the night Jenn hurt him. He’d gone to her room and tried to rape her.” Sam glared at Andy. “Do you really want the details?”

“That doesn’t prove there were others,” Andy pointed out.

“There were others,” Sam insisted. “I only got their first names, but I can give you that much. If you need more I’ll go back in. The man’s mind is a cesspit.”

Andy looked down, silent. After a moment he stood and walked over to the window, standing with his back to Sam. “Since I took over as director of the Project, we've had occasional problems with mentors. But nothing like this.” He turned to face Sam. “I believe you. But your word isn’t good enough for a criminal proceeding.”

Sam shook his head. “Not on its own, no. But many of his victims have graduated. If you can find them, some might testify. Jenn will, too.”

“Sam,” Andy said gently, “Jenn may not be able to testify.”

That was enough. Sam stood and advanced on Andy angrily. He rarely used his physical presence to intimidate, but he knew how. He was taller than Andy, wider through the shoulders. He used every bit of that advantage, looking down on the man with contempt. “That’s another thing. If you believe Jenn’s story, you have to agree that what she did was justified.”

“I understand, but – ”

“Let’s not play word games. Jenn isn’t just a healer. She’s a psychic surgeon. She could have given Bishop a heart attack or a stroke and no one would have known. She didn’t kill him, Andy. She was just trying to stop him hurting girls.” Sam stared into Andy’s eyes. “She’s a teenager, and it’s not her fault that what she did won’t work. I've worked with men like him. If you take away one outlet they search for a new one. Bishop _will_ hurt more kids if he’s not stopped. If he can’t rape, he’ll torture, maybe even kill. That’s my professional opinion.”

“Sam…”

Sam didn’t back off. “I want you to understand what I’m saying, _Director_. I’m not speaking as a psychic. I’m not speaking as a doctor. I’m talking to you as a father who lost a child to a monster like that. And I’m telling you that if _you_ don’t do everything in your power to stop him, _I will_.” Sam took a single step back.

Andy sighed. “You can’t testify on Jennifer’s behalf because you’re not part of the Project.”

Sam shook his head stubbornly. “Then change the rules. Or find someone who can. Just make sure she’s alive to testify against _him_.”

Andy was silent for a long time. He stepped sideways to move away from Sam; Sam let him. Finally, Andy nodded. “I’ll make a deal with you, Sam.”

Sam returned to his seat. “I’m listening,” he answered carefully.

“I want you to consider coming back to the Project.”

_No fucking way!_ Sam opened his mouth to say it, but Andy cut him off.

“Please, hear me out. The Psi Project badly needs someone with your training and experience. I believe I can double the salary you earn at the Woodward Institute.” He sat down again, opposite Sam.

Sam drew in a breath. Did Andy actually know what he earned at Woodward? If so, that was a generous offer. He shook his head. “You'd have to more than double it to compensate for my wife’s lost salary. She earns more than I do.”

“Perhaps we can negotiate that. Or there’s a position here for her, too.”

“It’s not about the money.”

Andy leaned forward. “Then what is it? Tell me what I have to offer to tempt you.”

Normally, Sam would have told him to go to hell. But the stakes were high enough to make him stop and think about the question. What would bring him back to the Project? That was easy. Power. Enough power to change things. They would never give him that.

“I can’t agree to anything without consulting Jess,” Sam stalled, “and she’s happy with her job at Woodward. I don’t think she'll want to move. But even if Jess wanted this…Andy, there’s no salary high enough to make me give up my therapy program. That’s not about money. It’s my life’s work.”

Andy nodded. “From what I've read, being tied to the Woodward Institute is holding you back. You could do better working as an independent consultant.”

Sam allowed a small smile to touch his lips. “I could do _more_. I’m not sure that’s better.”

“Suppose we could make room for your program. Being associated with the Project would raise your profile and enable you to teach your technique to others.”

“I have thought of that,” Sam conceded uncomfortably. It was a conflict for him. He _wanted_ to pass on his therapy techniques, because he knew it worked, it could help people. Associating with the Project was the only way, really, to do that. But for Sam the price was too high. “It’s a temptation, Andy. I admit it. But I’ll only consider coming here for the right position.”

“What position do you want?”

Sam looked the Director straight in the eye. “Yours will do.”

Andy’s eyes widened. For a moment he said nothing. Then he met Sam’s eyes seriously. “Do you mean that? Or is that hyperbole intended to end this discussion?”

“I’m serious. I've been here less than a week and I can already see ways this place needs to change. I want a position which will give me the authority to make those changes.” He didn’t point out that he was a psychic, and they would never put a psychic in the Director’s office. He was sure he didn’t need to.

“If you were Psi Project Director, you'd be responsible for signing off deathlist decisions. You've made your feelings about that clear, Sam. It’s not an easy thing to do.”

Sam nodded. He thought of Nedah, whose uncontrolled pyrokinesis could have killed everyone in her mentor group the night she started that fire. “I know, and that’s one of the things that has to change. Jenn should never have been in isolation. But I do accept that it’s necessary in some cases.”

Andy sat back, clasping his hands. “It happens,” he said slowly, “that I’m due to retire next year. If you really want the job…well, it’s not my decision alone, but I can guarantee your name will be on the short list.”

Sam felt his stomach turn over. He hadn’t expected that. Was it possible? He tried to speak and failed. He cleared his throat. “I’ll have to talk to Jess.”

“Of course.” Andy smiled. “You'll be back for Jenn’s hearing. We can discuss it then.”

Sam felt the trap spring shut around him. Andy hadn’t tied Jennifer’s hearing specifically to the job offer, but the implication was clear enough. He nodded. “Fine. You've got a deal.”

***

While Sam confronted Director Gilbert, Dean and Jo returned to the infirmary to collect Dean’s things. The room was just as Dean had left it, the closet open with his duffel inside, the bed still rumpled. Dean pulled his duffel out of the closet, checked the contents quickly and turned around to see Jo straightening the bed. He smiled to himself. That was Ellen’s training coming out; Jo probably didn’t even realise she was doing it.

He laid the duffel on the floor, moving slowly so he would make no sound. He crept up behind Jo and slid his arms around her waist, trapping her between his body and the bed.

“Dean!” Jo squealed. He pulled her closer to him and cupped one of her breasts in his palm. Jo squirmed in his arms. “Dean, stop it!”

Dean backed off, giving her just enough space to turn around and face him. When she did, he bent to kiss her. Jo’s mouth met his with an eagerness that belied her earlier protest. Dean ran his hands up her back, lifting her shirt as they kissed. When his hands found bare skin she moaned into his mouth.

Dean drew back with a grin. “There’s a bed right here,” he suggested playfully. “It’s a shame to waste it.”

Jo gave him a quizzical look. “_You_ want to have sex in a _bed_? What have you done with the real Dean Winchester?”

His hands were still beneath her shirt. He unhooked her bra, smiling. “It’s a private room,” he persisted.

“Without a lock on the door,” Jo pointed out. But she leaned back slightly, pressing her lower body into his groin. “Still, it _is_ a hospital. Wanna play doctor?”

Dean lifted her up onto the bed and pulled the shirt off over her head.

***

The only thing more sexy than Jo when she came was Jo utterly sated, her hair a golden tangle over the pillow, her lips parted and her eyes half-closed as she lay beside him.

Dean brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Jo?”

She sighed contentedly. “Mm-hm?”

“You wanna get married?”

Her eyes opened wide with surprise, then she frowned. “Screw you, Winchester. That ain’t funny.”

He stroked her cheek. “I mean it. Jo, I've been a wreck since Dad…” he broke off, unable to say it.

Jo understood. “I know.”

“And yesterday I came closer to dying than I ever have.”

She reached up and kissed him lightly. “I noticed. But that’s not a reason to – ”

Dean touched her lips with one fingertip. “Let me finish,” he begged her. “I had a lot of time to think today. I need to…get my life back on track. And I’m not sure how I’m gonna do that. But I know I want you in my life, Jo. I wouldn’t have made it through this year without you.”

Jo smiled, but it was a cynical smile. “Aw, that’s lovely. Which movie are you ripping off?”

That hurt. It hurt more than Dean wanted to admit. He stiffened. “You can be a real bitch, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” She traced a line from his neck, over his shoulder to caress his bicep. “I love you, Dean Winchester.” Her voice was almost a whisper, as if she were telling a secret.

Dean cupped her chin with his fingers, making her look at him. “Then why'd you turn me down?” he asked her, honestly confused.

“Because if you’re gonna ask a girl to marry you, you’re supposed to say _I love you_ first.”

Oh, shit. She was right. Dean felt like an idiot…but he’d never done this before!

“I’m in your life, Dean,” Jo added, her voice soft. “You don’t need to marry me for that.”

Dean kissed her then and Jo responded, cuddling closer to him in the bed. He kissed her deeply until she writhed against him, her hands tightening on his body. Then Dean broke the kiss. “I never said _I love you_ to any girl. Well…” he thought for a moment, “…not when it was true,” he amended, thinking even as he spoke that honesty probably wasn’t the best policy at this point.

He wanted to tell her about the moment under the monorail when he’d thought – when he’d been certain – that she was dead. He wanted her to know how much her death hurt him, how empty the future had seemed without her. But he’d never been any good at putting important things into words.

“I suck at this, okay?” Dean told her, frustrated, “But I do love you, Jo. I mean it. Marry me.”

“You’re crazy!” Jo laughed.

“Is that a yes?” Dean pressed, hating the eagerness he heard in his own voice, but not sure he could take another rejection.

Jo chewed on her index finger, pretending to think about it. “Do you want rugrats?”

The question took Dean by surprise. Children didn’t exactly figure in his life. But the thought wasn’t an unpleasant one. “Yeah. I guess so. Someday.”

Jo smiled and kissed him. “Then it’s a yes. But we'd better elope or something. Mom will pitch a fit when we tell her.”

***

“Will he do it?” Dean asked, as he and Sam watched Director Gilbert walk away.

“I think so,” Sam answered. “He’s a manipulative bastard, but this whole thing scared the shit out of him.”

Dean had instructed Andy to erect an iron fence around the cemetery (_Iron, not steel. Wouldn’t hurt to paint it with salt, either_) and to start cremating the body of every child who died on Psi Project property (_no exceptions, Gilbert. I don’t care if there are religious objections, or the family wants an open casket. Cremation. All of them_). He’d added that it would be a good idea to bury the ashes with a proper religious ceremony. It didn’t matter what religion; any spirit still hovering around would understand the intent. Dean had a lot more to say besides, like suggesting the Project should teach mediums about salt, but it was the cemetery that really mattered.

Now he stood, leaning against the hood of his car, waiting for Jo to join them so he could get the hell out of here.

“You leaving too?” Dean asked Sam. He saw Jo coming from the building,

Sam nodded. “I need to register my flight before I can travel, so I've got to stay another night. But yeah, I’ll be going home soon. I’ll be back, though, for Jenn’s hearing.”

Dean frowned. “Yeah. About that…” There was an unmistakable warning in his voice. “What the hell did you tell her, Sammy? I offered her a way out of here.”

Sam glanced around, but they were alone; Jo was coming toward them but was not yet close enough to hear. “I know you did. I didn’t try to talk her out of it.”

“Then why is she stayin'?”

“All I did was help Jenn think through her options. She knows that staying here is a gamble, but she decided for herself. I think she'll be okay, Dean.”

“They're gonna kill her, dude. How is that okay?”

Dean could be right, but Sam didn’t dare admit it. “Andy agreed I can testify for her. I can prove she acted in self-defence. It should be enough, if only because Andy knows I’ll go public if she doesn’t get a fair hearing.”

Dean straightened. “If she dies,” he threatened, “I’m blaming you.”

“If she dies, so will I,” Sam admitted. He half-wished Jenn would go with Dean, but she wanted to testify against Wes Bishop. She could only do that if she lived…but she couldn’t testify if she fled. She was putting too much trust in Sam’s testimony.

“You need to do better than that, dude.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You got a plan?”

Sam answered carefully. “I have an option, but it’s risky.”

“Like what?”

“It will take too long to explain. But there’s one thing that could stop a deathlist decision. If the hearing goes badly, I can try it.”

Dean nodded once, not happy with the vague explanation but accepting it. He turned to Jo, who had reached the other side of the car. “Ready?” he asked.

“Did you ask him?” Jo said eagerly, smiling.

Sam saw Dean’s frown melt into a grin. “No, not yet.”

“Ask me what?” Sam prompted.

Dean hesitated. “Ask you to come with us.”

Sam frowned. “Back to Nebraska?”

“Uh…no. We're gonna head home via Vegas. Jo and me…” Dean smiled her way and Sam saw her answering smile. Before Sam could make the logic leap to the obvious conclusion, Dean added, “C'mon, Sammy. Road trip. I’ll drive you home to Jess after the wedding. I'd like my brother there, you know?”

“Wedding?” Sam grinned. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. So? Go get your bags!”

Sam wondered what it was like to be able to jump in a car and drive to another state any time you wanted. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I _can’t_.”

Dean’s grin faded. “Come on, Sammy. Jess won’t mind too much.”

“It’s not about Jess. I’m a registered psychic, remember? I can’t travel out of Washington without all kinds of red tape, and it’s not easy to get a visa for Nevada.”

“Dude, who’s gonna know? Cars don’t get stopped at the border!”

Sam shook his head. It was too great a risk. If he were caught out of state without the proper paperwork, he would lose his license to practice as a psychic. That meant his job, his therapy program…everything would be gone. “And you never get pulled over by a cop? Never have to show ID or – ”

“Okay, I get your point. You've got no sense of adventure.”

Had Dean not said Vegas, Sam might have risked it. Vegas meant casinos, though, and casinos routinely scanned the ident. chips of their patrons. Many people relied on the ident. chip in their drivers’ license, but Sam’s was an implant in his wrist. It was a requirement of his job: Woodward was a secure institution so he needed a chip that couldn’t be lost or taken from him.

“Come up with an adventure that won’t get me a criminal record, and I’ll prove you wrong,” Sam offered. The explanation would take too long.

“Dude, everything that’s fun would either get you a criminal record or a divorce.”

Jo leaned over the car. “Sam!” She waited until she had his attention. “If you can’t come with us now, you've got to promise you'll visit once we get back home. Will Nebraska let you in?”

“Most states will. It just takes a while to jump through all the hoops.”

“Then you'll come?”

Sam nodded, smiling at them both. “Yeah. Give me a call when you get home and I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Sam walked out of the immigration office into the Washington sun. He saw Jessica’s shiny blue car waiting for him and smiled a greeting. Jess was waiting inside the car. She opened her door as he approached and Sam heard music from within. He quickened his pace and dropped his bag beside the car. Sam drew her into his arms and held her close. Her body warmed him better than the sun. Sam breathed in the scent of her hair. He slid his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her head up for a kiss.

“I missed you, too,” Jess whispered.

Sam slid into the passenger seat beside Jess. “Let’s not go straight home,” he suggested. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Jess studied him for a moment. “You look serious. Is this an _Antonio’s_ talk?”

_Antonio’s_ was their favourite Italian restaurant. It was a small piece of Tuscany magically transported to Northern Washington: the menu was wonderful, the wine local or Italian and you could eat in the candlelit interior or outside on the terrace. On the terrace the tables were separated by vine-covered screens, so it was a perfect place for a romantic dinner or a private conversation. They went to _Antonio’s_ every year for their anniversary, but it had also become the place they chose for serious conversations: talking over the future after the second time Jess miscarried, endless talks while Sam tried to persuade Jessica to eat something after they lost Rachel…and again after Sam confessed his part in Karl Ryan’s death.

Was this serious enough for _Antonio’s_? Normally Sam would have agreed that it was, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to evoke the memory of that murder. Even so…it was the best place to talk. “Do you think we can get a table without a reservation?”

Jess plucked her hands-free from the dash. “It’s still early. I’ll call.”

Over dinner, Sam told Jess most of what happened at the Psi Project. He explained Andy’s offer of a job, including the implied link to Jennifer’s hearing. Jessica listened as she always did, asking questions here and there but not trying to lead the conversation or comment until it was her turn to speak.

When it was her turn, she always had plenty to say.

“Director of the Psi Project?” Jess repeated finally. “Sam…?”

He knew that tone. “You think it’s impossible, don’t you?”

Jess thought about it before answering. “An appointment like that is more about politics than knowledge and experience. You'll need more than the outgoing director’s backing. A psychic running the Psi Project? That’s a hard sell, Sam.”

Sam laid down his fork and poured the last of the wine into his glass. “I agree, but right now that’s not important. If I’m even going to have a shot, I have to rejoin the Project, and soon. That means quitting my job at Woodward, moving…I can’t do it without your support.”

“I see that.” Jess pushed her empty plate away. She looked up, meeting Sam’s eyes, and what crossed her face was surprise. “You really think I’m going to say no, don’t you?”

It was Sam’s turn to be surprised. “I know it’s asking a lot, honey. We’d both have to leave our jobs, sell the house…”

“The house.” Jess’s face fell. “I love that house, and we've got some good memories tied up in it, but there are some terrible memories there, too. It was supposed to be our family home.”

The family home…for a family they would never have. Rachel was long dead, and Jessica couldn’t have another child.

“…And Woodward is just a job. I have a strong resume. I’m sure they have hospitals in Colorado.”

Sam had missed part of what Jessica was saying, but he understood the gist. “You’re sure? Even if the directorship might not happen?”

Jess nodded. “I think we should assume it _won’t_ happen, at least in terms of making our plans, but yes, Sam. Even if. I know what the Psi Project means to you.”

She’d said that to him before, in their shared dream:

_“I know your history and I understand your anger, but you were using it to avoid facing what the Project really is to you.” Jessica reached up to touch Sam’s face. “You need to face it, honey.” _

_“What do you think it is to me?” Sam asked her, but he knew she wouldn’t answer. _

_Jess shook her head. “Uh-uh. You need to answer that for yourself.” _

“You knew before I did,” Sam remarked.

“I think I know you pretty well.” Jess reached across the table to take Sam’s hand. “The kind of resentment you always expressed toward the Project, as justified as it was…or is…it seemed to come from denial.” Jessica stopped there, her warm hand covering his.

Sam recognised the technique, because he used it himself and just as automatically as Jess. She didn’t ask the question directly, hadn’t asked a question at all, but her careful phrasing was designed to encourage him to put his thoughts and feelings into words.

So he did. “I never had a home before the Psi Project. I missed Dean and my dad when the Project took me away, but it was good for me, too. I stopped having to worry about what Dad was doing when he went out at nights, or when he’d leave Dean and me alone for weeks. I was staying in one place, so I could make friends with other kids. And I got to learn about my ability. It was good.”

“It was home,” Jess nodded. She was still holding his hand.

Sam shrugged. “An abusive home, maybe, but yeah. Home. And going back there…Andy was right about one thing, Jess. I can make a difference there. For the Project and most of all for the kids. I want a chance to make a difference.”

Jessica’s answering smile was radiant. “It’s a long time since I've seen you this passionate about something.”

Sam squeezed her hand. “So…we're going to Colorado?”

“Yes. I think we are.”


	8. Epilogue

In the months since the hunt at the Psi Project, Sam had fallen into the habit of drawing the four of them together into a dream: himself and Jessica, Dean and Jo. He chose social settings: a bar, a beach full of families and sun, Disneyworld. They got along well, the four of them, in spite of their very different backgrounds.

But tonight was just Sam and Dean. If they were going to fight, even in a dream, Sam didn’t want witnesses.

When he dreamed with only Dean, Sam liked to create settings from places Dean had never visited: isolated but popular places like Yellowstone or the Grand Canyon. Tonight, he put them on top of the Empire State Building, with the sun coming up over New York, giving everything a rose-orange glow. There was a definite chill in the morning air and Dean had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His shoulders were slightly hunched and he slouched against the perimeter rail.

“Tell me about Jenn,” Dean insisted. His breath made white clouds in the air.

Sam probed Dean’s mind, carefully so Dean wouldn’t feel it. Dean’s fury rolled over Sam like a tsunami, rage enough it almost shocked Sam out of the dream. Dean knew already, or thought he knew. Nothing else would have made him so furious.

“Tell me,” Dean said again.

“Dean,” Sam began, choosing every word, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but…”

“You feed me more bullshit, Sammy, and I swear to god…”

“Jennifer will be okay. I promised you, Dean. I keep my word.”

Sam saw Dean tense just in time. He exerted his power over the shared dream as Dean began to move. He didn’t try to avoid the punch; instead it passed right through him as if Sam were a spirit. Sam _could_ have let Dean hit him – after all, Dean couldn’t hurt him in a dream – but he was just pissed enough to deny his brother that satisfaction. Dean should have trusted him.

Dean staggered, overbalanced by the failed swing, and Sam caught his arm before he fell. He used Dean’s momentum to shove him up against the wall.

“Dean! She’s not dead! She’s not gonna die!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not. Just listen.” Sam stepped back, releasing Dean. The sunlight shone in his eyes and he raised a hand to shield them. “The hearing was never likely to clear Jennifer,” Sam admitted.

Dean watched him steadily. He looked calm, but Sam could still feel Dean’s rage, The emotion was leashed, for now, but it was still there. Dean was _pissed_.

“Under the Psi Project rules, she’s guilty, Dean. It’s _not_ fair and I did everything I could to get them to make an exception, but I never really thought they would.” That had been Jenn’s problem from the beginning: she did what she did. _It could have been worse_ didn’t mitigate anything, it made her situation worse.

“So she’s going to die,” Dean concluded.

“No,” Sam insisted. “I had a plan B, Dean. I know better than anyone where the loopholes are in the Project’s rules.”

Dean relaxed – just a little. “Alright. Talk fast, and don’t give me any crap about it being too complicated to explain.”

It _was_ complicated, but Sam did his best to simplify it for Dean.

The Psi Project was under federal jurisdiction, so the allegations against Wesley Bishop had been referred to the FBI. They took allegations of child abuse _very_ seriously. Jennifer was under eighteen, so she’d needed an adult to accompany her when the investigating agents took her evidence. She asked Sam to do it, but he was also a witness, and had suggested Jessica. Jess told him that Jenn did very well, telling a clear and convincing story.

It seemed likely that the case would take a long time to come to court. Bishop was granted bail, but he was out of the Psi Project and Sam was sure the cops, or the Feds, were watching to make sure no one else was in danger from him. He knew the case would drag on. Bishop would be crazy to plead guilty, so there would be delays while the lawyers on both sides built their cases, negotiated plea bargains and tracked down witnesses. Jennifer’s testimony would be key to the case, but if the Psi Project’s death sentence were carried out, she would never be able to testify.

That fact was going to save her life.

The two FBI agents who interviewed Sam about the case knew little about the inner workings of the Psi Project – few people outside the Project did. So Sam had explained it before Jennifer’s hearing, pointing out that the self-defence argument meant nothing to the Project. So when Jennifer’s hearing went the way Sam anticipated, they were ready to intervene immediately. The hearing wasn’t the end of the process. There were two more stages in the Psi Project review process before they could execute Jenn. Both were mere formalities – the hearing decisions were always upheld – but they took time.

Now a federal judge had issued a court order preventing that process from continuing until Bishop’s trial was concluded.

“But that’s only temporary,” Dean objected, when Sam reached that part of his explanation.

“That’s all it needs to be,” Sam told him. “Jenn just turned seventeen. On her eighteenth birthday, the Project loses all power over her. Even though she’s deathlisted, if she’s still alive they have to let her go.”

Dean frowned. “So…you’re hoping this trial won’t happen for another year?”

“It only has to be three months. That’s when Andy retires.”

Dean looked at him. “Sammy, do you really think you’ll get his job?” He said it as if he was asking if Sam believed in unicorns.

Sam shrugged. “I think I have a good shot. I’m qualified, I can present a clear plan for the future of the Project, and I have Andy’s backing. But even if I don’t get the job, the new director will need time to settle in to the job, and I’m on the inside now. I can keep her safe, Dean.”

“You sure about that?”

Sam grinned. “Well, let me put it this way. Worst case scenario, I have a brother who can bust her out.”

Dean didn’t return Sam’s grin. He nodded, his expression serious. “Okay, then,” he agreed.

“So…we’re okay?” Sam asked uncertainly.

Dean’s eyes met his. “We’re family,” he answered simply.


End file.
